


The long way Round

by Syrse



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: But she is stubborn so here we are, Canon Compliant, F/M, Gendrya - Freeform, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Reunions, Sansa was not even supposed to be in this, What's West of Westeros, my finger slipped
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-26
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2020-03-19 20:19:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 31,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18977650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrse/pseuds/Syrse
Summary: COMPLETEThree years ago, the city burned and the wheel broke. The dust still gets everywhere. There is much to rebuild.Lord Baratheon is progressing in strides. He cares for his people, has taken on a bastard Ward, and is utterly choosy as to a bride.After three years of letters, the Queen of the North visits Storms End.Somewhere at the edge of the map, a wolf is on the move.(I suck at summaries.)





	1. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It has been too long, Your Grace”.
> 
> “How very formal.” She allowed herself a reprieve from water staring. His gaze was stuck somewhere over the horizon, but the corner of his lips tugged upwards.  
> “My apologies, Lady Sansa.”

It felt strange, to be in the capital. Like a constant worry coiled in her stomach.  
The Red Keep was on the mend, standing tall. The Queen in the North roamed its gleaming corridors, wondering how old ghosts managed to haunt even new stones. It had been three prosperous years since her corronation, and yet here she felt a little bird again, yearning to fly free. To fly North.

Soon, she promised herself. Only two more meetings. This time tomorrow, she would be on the King’s Road again.

The song of wood on wood drew her to the yard. Ser Brienne of the Kingsguard was training younglings, aided by Ser Podrick. It made her smile, even as the coil tugged a little tighter. Little boys, playing at war.  
  
She paused. Little boys, and one little girl. A slip of a thing, trying to get the better of Ser Podrick. The knight tripped her with a lazy sidestep, but she was up again in a whirlwind, going for him again and again, with less than moderate success. It did not seem to deter her.  
Ser Brienne called an end to practice as she approached, and the children disbanded, to whatever lessons awaited them next. Only the girl lingered, apparently unwilling to stop eating dust.   

“Our future is in good hands, it seems”.

Ser Brienne’s smile was like a breeze of fresh air. “Your Grace. It has been too long.”  
  
Both knights took a knee, leaving the girl momentarily bewildered, until she found herself and dipped into a perfect curtsy. “Your Grace.” 

A little Lady on the training field, then. Stranger things had happened. Dusty leathers, a well chipped trainingsword. Windswept hair, dark as night. Sansa offered her a warm smile, and felt it freeze on her face as the child rose to meet her gaze. Blue eyes, clear as the sea. _Baratheon colours._

“This is Cassandra, your Grace.” Ser Brienne broke the silence before it could take hold. “Lord Baratheon’s ward.”  
  
Sansa willed her features to thaw, her head testing the math. She was horrid at guessing ages, especially with children. The girl could be seven, ten-and-three, or anything in between. And Lord Baratheon had been a man grown long before he came to be a Lord.

“Well met, Lady Cassandra.”

“Just Cassandra, if it please your Grace.” The girl smiled easy and true. “I am not a Lady.”  
  
The coil pulled at her stomach, hard. “You sound like my sister.” The smile drained out of the blue, uncertain. She hadn’t meant it to sound harsh, truly. She opened her mouth for amends, and heard something entirely else tumble out. “How old are you, Cassandra?”

The blue was growing darker _._ “I will be ten on my next nameday, your grace.” _There is a storm in those eyes._ The storm raised her chin. “And yes, I am a bastard. Was that Your Grace’s next question?”

“Cassandra!”  
  
Sansa hurriedly raised a hand to halt Ser Brienne’s indignance. “Peace.” She took in the defiant jawline, the way she held her shoulders. There were similarities beyond denying. _Nine and three means six, with no way of knowing Lord Baratheon’s age._

“That was unkind of me. Allow me to apologise.” The storm remained in calculated worry, so she switched strategy. Smiled pleasantly.

“I have not had the pleasure of talking to Lord Baratheon in person for some time. _allthough his ravens had been plenty over the years._ The Baratheons and the Starks have been allies for many years. _Friends, truly. A confidant._ Lord Baratheon himself was instrumental in our victory against the Dead at Winterfell, and we owe him much. It would please me to speak to him once more.”

A ghost of a grin stole against the clouds, and she knew she had her then. “He told me the story many a time. He talks about it often, it is one of my favourites. My mother usually tells them better, the stories. Except that one, because that one is his.” The last of the clouds seemed to flit away. “Shall I go find him for you? I’m sure he would be thrilled to see you again, your Grace.”

She barely had to nod for the girl to dash away, pushing her training sword into the hands of a startled servant. “Gren, would you mind holding this? And have you seen my uncle?”

And just like that, the storm was gone, leaving the Queen momentarily winded. _  
_

_Uncle._

_Not father._

_Uncle._

Sansa released her breath in a shaky laugh.

 

\----------------------

He found her on a bench, staring across the water of Blackwater Bay. How many lifetimes ago was it, when she had stood at this exact spot, crying her eyes dry at a leaving ship? Life had been utterly hopeless then, without reprieve, without friends. And now here she stood, with a crown on her head, and a vice around her heart.

“Your Grace.”

His bow was perfectly Lordly. Signature black hair had grown out, making him look all manners of respectable. She was as of yet unsure about the beard. She tried to put an age to his features, failed, and landed on eligible. Peace had made the families of Westeros hungry for new alliances, leading to a score of bethrotals all across the realm. She herself had refused to conform.  
So had the man in front of her.

_And now he brings a bastard to the capital, and names her ward._

“Lord Baratheon. It makes for a welcome change to see the face behind the raven.”

“It has been too long, Your Grace”.  
  
“How very formal.” She allowed herself a reprieve from water staring. His gaze was stuck somewhere over the horizon, but the corner of his lips tugged upwards.

“My apologies, Lady Sansa.”

He made to sit down next to her. For once, she found she did not mind. It was hard, still, to trust the men of this world. Harder again with strangers. But this was no mere stranger, even if the face was. She knew his words, his worries, the way he still forgot to cross his t’s on occasion. His first request for her opinion on a matter long forgotten had let to another, and then another. He had claimed he needed the help. Needed the practice. Before long, she had found herself replying with minor details of her own. Not all of the ravens were necessary. Certainly as of late. But she had found them all useful in one way or another.  

“I hope Cassandra was not unkind. She can be a bit overwhelming to strangers.”

_Strangers, yes. Because in all your many letters, you never mentioned her once._

“She was perfectly behaved. You have much to be proud of.” She could have left it at that, but she was Queen of the North, and knew how to play the game better than anyone.

“She was so dusty and stubborn in that yard, I almost took her for my sister." 

His response was silence. Silence and stilness, a deer in the woods. She took some cold pride in that.

So many letters, over the years. He had asked about her own wellbeing, many a time. Given her regular updates about the political ongoings of the Stormlands and beyond. His complaints about the offered bethrotals had been a surprise, at first, but it had not taken her long to find the pattern. How he never seemed to be able to give good reason to oppose the matches, only ever asking her for proper ways of deflecting them in good grace. How he liked to talk about his time at Winterfell, and how he seemed to remember so many of her people, all of them by name and skill. A handful of times, he had even asked after news from Jon behind the Wall.  
Perhaps even more telling was how the rumors had labeled him ‘nothing like his father.’

 _I hope your family remains safe, Your Grace_. It was like a prayer at the bottom of every single letter. But never by name. Never her.  
Not once.

“I have a meeting with King Brandon on the morrow.” He broke the silence in perfect composure, and she was drawn back to the real world, in which words did not come on paper, easily presented to be picked apart at leasure. “I mean to have her legitimized.”

That did surprise. “Truly?”

He nodded, eyes fixed on the horizon. “Aye. Why not? She’s solid, smart, willing to learn. Compassionate.” He turned to her then, with an honest smile. “She’ll need to find means to temper the storm in her blood, but she is still young. She’ll have a better go at it than me, I’m sure.”

Sansa found the smile contagious. “The council might not take kindly to such a request. A girl for an Heir, and a bastard at that.”

He shrugged carelessly. “A Queen holds the North. House Tarly is ruled by women. The council is biased in my advantage. They legitimized this bastard, surely they can legitimize another. She is my blood, there is no denying that. Her mother is my half sister. Her father was a Knight of the Vale. And the Stormlands need an Heir, as so many Lords have found the need to remind me.”

“Aye”, she agreed softly. “And their Lord seems utterly choosy as to a bride.”

The sudden look of hurt made her swallow her pride of skill. He was still so very new at this game, and they were supposed to be friends. She rested a hand on his arm in a sign of peace.

“I am glad to hear you have found yourself a family, My Lord.”

She had meant it as a kindness, but she felt the muscles tense under her touch, saw something wild flash in his startled glance. He stood abruptly, and she followed.

“Apologies, Lord Gendry. I did not mean to give offence.” 

“None taken, Your Grace.” But his eyes refused to leave the horizon once again, and the set of his shoulders reminded her of a slip of a girl, defying the Queen of the North over a number.

“If I could be of help in any way… I would not want to impose, but I’ve brokered quite a few matches in the North...” 

He looked at her then, all proper and composed once more. “You are too kind, Your Grace.” The unspoken refusal was plain.

_We all have our own ghosts. And not all of us are willing to share._

_\----------------_

 

> _My dear sister,_
> 
> _While I realise your quest is of certain importance to you, I would surely hope that you have succeeded by now. So if you could pass along this message to Arya Stark, wherever she may have been found, I would be much obliged._
> 
> _Tell her for me, that three years is enough. Tell her there is a haven here, if she’ll have it. Tell her I promise not to burn her ship the second she sets foot in Westeros again._

It was pointless of course, to write these. There hadn’t been a word from her in ages. No sightings of any kind, not a single clue as to where she could be. Sansa dipped her pen into the ink all the same.

> _Tell her she can have father and mother’s old room, if she likes. Or any room she wants, really. It is a large keep, and her sister remains as of yet unmarried._

The pen lingered on the page, slightly trembling.

> _Tell her I would unname her as Heir to the North, if that is what she desires._
> 
> _Tell her I would never presume to marry her off to some stiff Lord under the pretense of alliances. She could stay a maid the rest of her days, if that is what she desires._

It was raining on the parchment now. The utterly pointless, stupid parchment. She shoved it away so sudden, the inkwell tipped. The spill swallowed up her words, erasing them from existense. She stared at them, wondering if her sister had been just as easily erased, stolen forever by the black waters of the world.

She scratched too hard at the new parchment then, blotching the words, unwilling to do it over. She hurried to press it into the hand of a servant, before she could change her mind. She was a Queen, and Queens should never beg, but sisters could ask their brothers for help, and only rue it slightly.

The hours stretched into the night, one after the other. They had brought wine at her request, but it was left untouched as she waited, and waited. She felt like a little bird again, on her knees in the Godswood, hoping and fearing for Ser Dontos to appear. Only now she couldn’t even find it in herself to pray. None of them had ever listened anyway.

It was the hour of the wolf when her late husband came to her room. She received him without a word. He offered none in return, did not even glance up as he went straight for the wine, pouring with determination. She claimed the first cup from him fingers and drained it before his was full. He mimicked the sentiment, refilling both cups wordlessly.

It wasn’t until he was well into his third cup, that Tyrion deemed to look at her. 

“He told me to say… she is taking the long way round.”


	2. Gendry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What if they don’t like me?”
> 
> “Then they don’t like you.” He shrugged. “You can’t expect the whole world to like you. I mean it helps, a bit, but it doesn’t guarantee anything.”

Gendry hated standing still. He had gotten plenty of practice over the years, posture and stance being, apparently, important. Didn’t mean he didn’t hate it. He never had been one for doing nothing. Being a Lord involved a lot more waiting than he ever could have guessed. He flexed his fingers, anxious for a tool, for something to do.

Ser Podrick had the door today, and he hadn’t moved a hair since they got there. He wasn’t even sure the knight was breathing. Made it look easy too. Damn the man.

He resisted the urge to flex again. Never would he get used to this bit. Still, he was leagues ahead of the jitter of nerves next to him. Cassandra was shuffling from one foot onto the other, staring at the door. Every few beats she would realise she was fidgeting, stop herself, only to start right up again.  
  
“Hop up and down a bit.” Gendry suggested. “Get it out of your system.”

The girl stubbornly planted her feet instead, shoulders straight, hands behind her back. She tended to copy his stance. He wondered if it was a conscious thing.

“What if they don’t like me?”  
  
“Then they don’t like you.” He shrugged. “You can’t expect the whole world to like you. I mean it helps, a bit, but it doesn’t guarantee anything.”

She frowned at the door some more. If it didn’t open soon, she might just burn a hole right through it.

“Ser Davos is in there. That makes one friendly face, at least.”

“Ser Brienne as well, my Lady.” Podrick supplied. Gendry wondered briefly if the Commander of the Kingsguard had placed Podrick there on purpose.  
  
“Not a lady.” Muttered Cassandra sullenly, digging her toes into the dust. Dust seemed to get absolutely everywhere in King’s Landing, ever since the fires. Would keep getting everywhere for years to come. Rebuilding was nowhere near complete.

“Just practicing, my Lady.” The knight offered her a wink. He earned a weak smile with that, at least.

“Just be polite. Be honest.” Gendry turned her under pretence of checking her outfit, but mostly to get her attention off the door for a bit. “Be yourself.”

He had decided on plain but clean garb for her, tunic over breaches, yellow on black. No arms, though. The colours spoke clear enough. Claiming the arms before the request would ruffle feathers.

She frowned at his chest, a slightly pained, pensive look. “What if being myself isn’t polite?”

Ser Podrick coughed, and took a sudden interest in the opposite wall. Gendry ignored him. “There are plenty of polite ways of telling someone to shove it.” Ser Podrick’s grin widened. “That said, just focus on not swearing, or speaking out of turn. I’ll do most of the talking anyway.”

She nodded, still frowning.  
  
“Cassandra. Look at me.” He smiled at her, blue on blue. “Breathe.”

She nodded again, and breathed. Tried to, anyway. It was more of a gulp.

The door opened at long last. The Queen in the North stepped out into the hall, tall and gracious, cool and composed. Cassandra squirmed out from under his hold.

“Your Grace.” He bowed, his ward following suit.

“My Lord. Cassandra.” She looked the girl over, appraising. “Best wipe off those dusty boots. NOT on the back of your breeches!” she hasted to add. “Here.” 

A delicate handkerchief was pulled out of a long sleeve, and Cassandra took it hesitantly. After a sideway glance to him for confirmation, she dipped to dust the tips of her boots, taking care not to put her knees into the dust. Sansa gave her another once over. Slender fingers came up to push a loose strand of hair behind an ear.

“Good.” The fingers trailed down, assessing. They found the spot under her chin, softly pressing up. “Stand proud. They’re all just people in there. You are a Baratheon. You’re built to last, you lot.”

Her smile was surprisingly warm. Cassandra seemed taken back, for once at a loss for words. Her Grace the Queen stepped aside. 

“Best of luck, to both of you.”

“Thank you, your Grace.” This time he found he meant it.  
  
He pressed a guiding hand into the small of Cassandra’s back. She felt so tiny and tense, but he knew better than anyone that size could belie strength and bravery. 

“Go on then. They are waiting.”

 

\-----------------------

 

The sun had barely moved when they stepped outside again. Neither had Ser Podrick. Cassandra stared at him with wide eyes and open mouth. He raised an eyebrow.

“Went well, did it?”

It seemed to come crashing down all at once. She whooped, sudden and loud, throwing her arms out in a wild twirl.

“I cannot believe it! I’m a Lady!" 

“Well, in name, anyway”, muttered Gendry softly, utterly amused. He nodded across the yard. “If My Lady is quite done celebrating, I believe we are being summoned.”

Her Grace the Queen was standing in the map room, somewhere in the North, just off of the Wall. Cassandra immediately stilled, falling into line at his right.

She turned her back towards the Wall at their approach. “My Lord. My Lady.”

“Your Grace.” Cas was shuffling her feet again, covering and uncovering Hornwood. “I apologise for my unseemly behaviour.”

The Queen shook her head slightly. “Don’t. Life can be hard. We should not feel bad about celebrating the good.” Once again, Cassandra had no answer to that, simply blinking in slight confusion. Gendry decided he quite liked this effect her Grace was having on his Ward. Perhaps he should ask her for pointers. 

“Where were you born, Lady Cassandra? Can you show me?” Sansa glanced down at Westeros. Gendry did as well, and immediately regretted it. He wanted to move, and not move. He settled for looking anywhere else but at the name above his toes.

“The Vale, your Grace.” The little Lady turned without hesitation. “At The Gate of the Moon. Here.”

Sansa followed her. “Your parents were in the employment of House Royce?”

“My mother used to be, yes. She was one of their mountain guides. She is believed to be the first natural child of late King Robert. My father was Ser Mychel of house Redfort.”

That seemed to surprise the Queen. “Ser Mychel Redfort? Was he not married to Lady Ysilla Royce?”

Gendry cursed silently. Leave it up to her Majesty to know every single fucking house and alliance. An angry blush was creeping up Cassandra’s cheeks, and he tried to catch her attention, willing her to keep her cool. She was decidedly avoiding his gaze.  
  
“He was, your Grace. But he gave my mother me, first.” She kept her eyes on the Queen stubbornly. “They were to be married, but his father decided otherwise. My parents got little say in the matter.”

The Queen’s face was still as ice, giving nothing away. “I see. Did he take care of you, at least?” 

“He did, in a fashion. Until he died.” Cassandra looked down at the map then, suddenly shy. He almost stepped in then, to put an end to it. But no, this was something she had to learn as well. It would surely come up again, like it as not. More often than she would like. 

“How did he die?”

For a moment Gendry thought she wasn’t going to answer, the silence stretching on.  
  
“He fell in the Battle of the Bastards, Your Grace.” 

The Queen in the North turned white as snow. The little Lady did not notice, her eyes stuck to her birthplace.

And he suddenly found himself an intruder, standing there like an idiot with his feet stuck in the past. But nobody moved, so neither did he.

When Sansa started speaking again, there was an edge to her voice.

“The Battle of the Bastards was all but lost, until the Knights of the Vale appeared. They fought bravely, and honorably, and won us the day.” She took a step towards Cassandra, and another. And then she did something Gendry had never seen her do before, not ever. Cassandra looked up in shock, suddenly eye to eye with the Queen in the North, taking a knee in front of her, the little Lady Bastard. The Queen took her hand in hers. “They saved my home. They saved House Stark. Your father gave his life for that, and it is a debt that can never be repayed. I know my gratitude it is not worth much, but know that you have it, now and always.”

And for the third time in one hour, the new Lady of Storms End seemed utterly shocked into silence.

 

\----------------

 

Gendry followed Ser Brienne through the long hallways, glad for the company. He used to know Flea Bottom like the back of his hand, before it burned. The Red Keep however, still managed to turn him around. It was infuriating, but he never would have found the right quarters without help. Besides, Ser Brienne might prove useful in the matter.

Her Grace looked surprised at his visit, but not half as surprised as at his words.

“Come with us.”

She pauzed over the letter she was writing. “Excuse me?”

“Come visit Storms End.”

She blinked. Flipped the paper over and put down the pen. “I… I can’t. I’m supposed to head back to Winterfell today.”

He crossed his arms and leaned into the doorframe. “Would it help if I asked you all politely and proper?”

“It might, if you had even an inkling of either of those.” She countered, standing up. “I thank you for the invitation, but I have pressing matters to attend to." 

“Can’t be that pressing if you’re taking the King’s Road. Storm’s End is not that far out. You could ride with us, and make up for lost time by way of White Harbor. Maybe even East Watch, if you don’t have any Northern stops planned.”

She was looking at him queerly. “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why am I being invited?“ 

He shrugged in what he hoped was a casual way. “Cassandra likes you well enough. She might learn something useful. Won’t hurt my house none either, having such a high placed visitor. And you might see things I’m missing. Things that could be done better.”

She gave that some thought, nodding. “True. But why are you inviting me? Why do _you_ want me to come?”

Right to the heart of things. He remembered that trait all too well. He caught his fingers flexing again, and hid them behind his back. A half truth then, to start. “It gets lonely up there. Would be nice to have a familiar face around. From before… well, before. In any case, it makes for much easier conversation than by raven.”

He had forgotten Ser Brienne until she spoke. “I could ride with you, my Lady. Like back in the day. Make sure you arrive safely to the North, once your visit is over.” 

Sansa looked like she was about to object, but Brienne went on. “It is the Kingsguard’s duty to protect the Royal Family, after all. I’m sure King Brandon would agree to it.”

She sighed then, looking from one to the other. “Neither of you is going to let this go, I take it.”

“No.” They had said it together. Gendry allowed himself a grin.

“I’ll leave you to pack, then.”

 

\-----------------

 

It still had been a relief to see her appear at the gate. After all, nobody tells the Queen in the North what to do. He scanned her retinue for familiar faces. Ser Brienne was there at her side, as was Ser Podrick, and… Gendry did a double take.

“Davos?”

The old man rode up to him, smiling into his beard. “That’s still Ser Davos to you, son. Hello, lass.” Cassandra beamed at him. Davos ruffled her hair fondly. “Go ride with Ser Podrick and review the houses of the Crownlands, go on then. I’ll see if you remember them all later.” 

He allowed his horse to fall into step once she had ridden ahead. Davos looked back at Gendry, who still found that broad grin to be on his face. 

“Don’t give me that look. I need a vacation.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that we have a semblance of the Gang back together, it's time to take them home for a bit. 
> 
> I know where I am going, I just have no idea how long it is going to take me. I usually work with an outline, but characters tend to wander, or take shortcuts. We'll see what happens. 
> 
> I value any and all feedback! Even if it's to say I wrote a word wrong. English is not my first, so it does still happen from time to time.  
> I also feel like I am incredibly bad at formatting. Is that just in my head? 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Davos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We’re not talking about this today.”  
> “I’m not talking about anything, just remarking, really, how-”  
> “Your mouth’s moving. That’s talking. Not today.”

There were wolves howling in the night. From the safety of the fire, Davos found their song strangely beautiful. There hadn’t been wolves in the Stormlands since he was a little lad. Peace seemed to bring along all kinds of changes.

 _The night is dark and full of terrors._ The words came unbidden, and he jerked his gaze away from the flames. Plenty of ghosts already present at Storm’s End. No sense in letting that one tag along.

The trek down the King’s Road had been uneventful enough. Others might call it boring. He found boring was doing him a world of good. It felt oddly liberating to ride the column at a leisurely pace, to have sky above his head instead of stone. The tents he could do without, though. He truly was getting too old to be sleeping in those damn contraptions.

More even so than tents, the little Lady of Storms End was making him feel his age. Not one for the wagons, Cassandra rode in the column with the fresh resilience of youth. Every morning she’d pick a different riding companion, happily chattering the day away. There seemed to be no end to her questions. Come nightfall, she’d help the squires with the horses. She chattered to those as well, in a low, soothing voice, rubbing them down for the day while the lads set up the damnable tents.  
She was visibly giddy on her title, at times almost bouncing in the saddle with the newness of it. Yet she’d throw herself into the work every evening. Davos could think of many men who would proudly set themselves down by the fire, suddenly too proper to lift a finger.

She had a good example, he mused. Yesterday on the road, Gendry had dirtied his Lordly colours reshoeing a horse. The Queen had raised a brow as he joined her by the fire that night, but made no mention at the stains. Her Grace was not one for riding herself, it seemed. She preferred the wagon during the day, yet supped under the open sky when weather permitted, and talked pleasantly with anyone who dared approach her. Her evening fire was not as rowdy a happening as this one, but she never sat alone. Aside from her own men, she was usually joined by Gendry, Ser Brienne and Ser Podrick. He knew he had a place at her fire as well. Still, he preferred to sit here, with the common folk. No amount of titles or years could ever erase that.

It was a feeling the Lady Cassandra seemed to share. He watched fondly as she talked and jested with the lot of them, sitting amidst the squires. She seemed to know all the men’s names, the names of their children, even which names to mention to make certain lads blush crimson into their roots. Every night she had adamantly refused to go to bed. He watched refusal give way to defeat, as she slowly slumped sideways into a shoulder. The men beckoned their Lord over then, to carry her off to bed. Only after, the rough words and the dirty stories came out.

They like her, he realised. In truth, the girl made it easy. When Gendry returned, his men made room at the fire and handed him the wine skin. They liked him, too. Davos felt an absurd warmth of pride at that. He had seen many changes in his life, aye. But the bad did not wipe out the good.

\---------------

The little Lady found him come morning, to claim his company for the day. She promptly begged him for the story of the Redwyne cordon and the Siege of Storm’s End. Even though he had told it to her many a times before, he readily obliged. His own sons preferred to look only at the ship in his arms. This one at least never scoffed at the onion. She was a rapt listener, with a penchant for asking smart questions. A bit pertinent, perhaps. Meekness never did run in the family. There was a bit of Renly in her, and the way her mouth drew into a tight line when she scowled reminded him of Stannis. Mostly, she was a storm all her own. But the sparkle in her eyes when she talked about stories and valour and the age of Giants, those bits reminded him of Shireen, and clenched at his heart. When she admitted that she had missed him these past moons, it grew heavier still. All too often, real life seemed to pass the Council by.

“I’ll try to come visit more often.” He promised. “If you can spare this old man the time and the place. I suppose now that you’re a Lady, you might attract more visitors.”

The face she made was quite unladylike.

“I hope not. We get plenty as it is. We hosted House Connington three moons past. House Selmy before that. We barely got rid of House Thorne _and_ House Blount on time to ride for the capital. Lord Blount thought it would make for a nice surprise not to send word ahead, so we were suddenly full to bursting. We ended up having to give my room to their ladies.”

“So where did you sleep?” Storm’s End wasn’t the largest of keeps, he remembered that much.  


“Uncle gave me his room. I offered to sleep in the barn, but he said it would be _unbecoming_.” She puffed up her cheeks in obvious annoyance.

“And he slept?”

“In the forge.”

Davos snorted. Cassandra wasn’t laughing. A frown was growing between her eyes, like a brooding storm.

“They always muck up the schedule when they arrive. And the Ladies always gawk at my training, giggling behind my back. Telling me how smartly I am dressed.” She fidgeted in the saddle. “I’m not stupid. I can tell a compliment from an insult. Meanwhile they don’t even _do_ anything. They just sit there in their stupid dresses and talk and giggle and sew. Some don’t even like horses! And they don’t ever wear proper rain gear, either. Half of them catch colds, running around with their shoulders bare.”

She stared ahead, suddenly sullen. “The boys don’t seem to find them useless though. They’re always falling over each other to talk to them. Making stupid jokes about stupid things. Arwyn called Lady Alynne _pretty_.”

She said the word as if it was poison. Davos smiled into his beard. She reminded him of his Stannis and Steffon, back when they still thought girls were the strangest beings in the Known World.

“Give it a few years, lass. Once you’re grown, your uncle will find you a worthy match. Someone good and kind, who will see your skills and worth, and not just your shoulders.”

She squared said shoulders in a very familiar way, tilting her chin up. “If my uncle doesn’t have to marry, I don’t either.”

She spurred her horse into a sudden gallop, leaving him nothing but dust. He grimaced ruefully at Ser Brienne. 

“Well that sure shut me up then, didn’t it?”

The Kingsguard smiled thinly. “I cannot find it in myself to fault her. I was betrothed thrice over. Never much cared for it.”

\---------------

The rain made Storm’s End look like a half forgotten memory. A shadow from a time of onions and lost fingers. The fog of the past lifted as the keep came to life. Horses were led to stables, people ushered inside, trunks and bags unloaded. There was a hot bath waiting for him, and fresh clothes hanging by the fire. He slipped into the tub gratefully, allowing the warmth to seep into his bones. Afterwards, he’d swear he only closed his eyes for a heartbeat, but when he opened them again the water had grown cold. Perhaps he truly was getting too old for travel. He ached to get into bed and sleep until first light. Instead, he got dressed, and took the stairs down to the main hall. He passed the Queen halfway down, clutching a raven scroll. She nodded politely as she passed, her steel eyes betraying nothing.

As halls went, Storm’s End’s was rather cosy. Smallish, but warm and dry, the song of the rain playing pleasantly over the roof. It was also empty, safe for its lone Lord. Gendry was staring into the fire, a cup of wine forgotten in his grasp. When Davos joined him, he seemed miles away.

“The little Lady knows her houses well. She has a knack for it, seems like.”

Gendry simply grunted. The road seemed to have worn out all. Davos plunged on.

“Interesting bit. She mentioned you had quite a few visitors of the female variety—“

“We’re not talking about this today.”

“I’m not talking about anything, just remarking, really, how-”

“Your mouth’s moving. That’s talking. Not today.”

Davos fell silent. For the first time since they left King’s Landing, he looked at Gendry, really looked. The lad was tired. Worn, even. He was staring at something beyond the fire, the fingers of his free hand flexing. Gloomy and brooding. _He looks like Stannis._ Davos had a sudden urge to shake the man.

“Some chatter has started up amongst the guards that you prefer boys.”

He chuckled lightly at that, without humour. “Maybe I do.”

Davos scoffed. “You don’t.”

“Don’t I?” Gendry drained his cup, standing up sharply, moving away from the fire to refill it. “Too harsh to think on, is it? My Uncle Renly liked them well enough, and he was the best out of the lot of them.” 

He sat back down with a glower and a full cup. “Least he never whored around. Least he never burned children.”

The old man flinched at that, at the memory of a burned stag in the snow. “Aye, he was better than most, while holding no bodily love for the women of the world.” He fixed Gendry with a stern look. “But he still married. He still did his duty.”  
  
The lad looked up with a scowl. “He married to form a much needed alliance. He married to produce an Heir. Both of those problems have different solutions.”

“They do, aye. And you’re doing well, nobody is saying differently. Still could be useful to pick a bride from a good family, give her a babe or two.”

His look was incredulous, almost mad, even. “Are you telling me a squealing swaddled boy would be automatically better at a job Cassandra is actively training for? Does it really just take a cock and nothing else?”

“Don’t be absurd. It never hurts to have a spare, is all I’m saying.”

He slammed his cup down, breathing hard. Davos had missed the moment where he had drained it, somehow.

“We are talking about children, not tools.” The words were sharp as steel.

He reached out to him with a gloved hand. “That’s just how it works, lad.” Gendry pulled his arm away roughly, eyes dark.

“I refuse to be a tool. I do this my way, or not at all.” He rose to his feet. “Good night, Ser Davos.”  
  
He was halfway across the floor before Davos remembered the rules of courtesy. “Good night, Lord Baratheon.”

Gendry turned sharply. “Don’t call m-” he swallowed the words with a pained pinch. The man stomped out of the hall, into the rain.

Davos did not follow.

\------------------

They had given him his old room back. He took a candle from the hall to light his way, wondering vaguely if any of the staff here was left over from back in the day. Back when his knighthood was as fresh as the scars on his fingers. Not that he had lingered long. Once the war was fought, Storm’s End had been given over to Renly, and he had followed his Lord to Dragonstone. He refrained from counting the years. His bones did not need the reminder.

There was a light burning in the library. He crossed the threshold, curious. The Queen of the North had the room to herself, sitting in an island of light.

“Won’t you join me, Ser Davos?” She must have sensed his presence. Her eyes gleamed in the candlelight, like a wolf in the night.

“Gladly, your Grace. Seems we are the only ones still up at this hour.”

She motioned to the table. “I could not sleep. My brother’s wings keep me from slumber.”

He stepped closer to the light, surveying her work. There were maps simply everywhere. Westeros was there, and Essos, then Essos again. He spotted the Jade Sea and Asshai, Old Valyria, even a crude coastline of Sothoryos.

“Planning to travel, your Grace?”

She shook her head, the light playing over her hair like fire. “Looking for something I lost.” She still had the raven scroll, he noticed, tucked tight in her hand.

“Anything I can be of service with?”

“You are very kind, but no need. It did take me a while.”

She traced a delicate finger east over the Shivering Sea, past Braavos, past even the Bones, to the very edge of the map. There was steel in her eyes. Steel and a hint of hope.

“Nefer. In N’ghai.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, so this chapter took me forever to write. For one thing, a lot of prompts and bits of dialogue kept popping into my head for later chapters, so they had to be noted down before I forgot about them again. 
> 
> Second, I stopped all over the place to read up on, well, everything. Which Houses sworn to the Stormlands? How many of those friendly? Any of them extinct? Any of them in possession of single Maidens? What year are we anyway? How old are all of these characters? And maps, so many maps. 
> 
> Anyways, hope you all enjoyed. As always, feedback appreciated!


	4. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She smiled pleasantly. “Don’t pretend to know the games us Highborns play, my Lord.”  
> This wolf could be a bird, when needed. In the game, songs worked better than teeth.

Dawn came, and with it came fog, rising thick and moist from the grounds. On mornings like these, Storm’s End stood an island in a sea of white. Sansa took care on the steps. The morning veil had coated the stones in a fine spray, and it would be quite unbecoming of a Queen to slip down some stairs.  
She found Ser Brienne on the curtain wall, looking out over the Narrow Sea. The sun was rising, pale and blurred behind the veil. One could be forgiven for thinking the world ended where mist met water. _The edge of the map.  
_But light was breaking through. The world was getting bigger. Somewhere out there, a wolf was on the move.

Ser Brienne raised her arm to point across the water. “On a clear summer day, you can see all the way to Tarth.”

“Do they get many clear days here?”  
  
“No.” She conceded. “But the ones they get are golden.”

For a while they stood in silence, watching the world grow.  
  
“Do you miss home?” 

Brienne concidered it. “I miss the island sometimes. The Halls were I grew up. The waters were I learned to swim and row. My father. But home is where my duty is.”

Duty. The word was heavier than the mist.  
  
The knight turned her back to the sea, looking inland. The woods were still hidden, but the village was slowly rising, an island onto its own. She frowned. 

“Town’s getting too big.”  
  
Sansa turned with her. “How can you tell?”  
  
“That stretch further on, hugging the tree line? That one’s all new, and growing still. You can tell by the roofs. Not enough moss.”

Sansa scanned the buildings, counting. “Doesn’t seem bigger than Winter Town.”  
  
“True. But Winterfell has a larger keep. Plenty of room for the townsfolk during a siege. It wouldn’t bother every Lord, but somehow I don’t see Lord Baratheon closing his gates to the common folk.”

“They named the new bit Crafter’s Hold. A town onto itself almost, but it’s mostly workshops and stores.” The woman coming up the stairs was tall, dressed in plain leather and wool, hair hidden under a cowl. She walked the wet stones with ease. “Forgive the intrusion. I’m just a mother, come to watch her daughter train. Good morning to you, Ser Brienne of Tarth.” The newcomer turned to Sansa, and paused rather abruptly.    
“Forgive my confusion. Am I standing in the presence of a Queen? Or a Lady from the vale?”  
  
Sansa started with recognition. “I know your face. You escorted me once, down from the Eyrie.”  
  
“I did, your Grace. Only your hair was different then. As was your name.” Her blue eyes were sparkling. “Mya Stone, if it please you both.”  
  
She remembered now. A narrow path. Stones and mules. She had been afraid. Back then she had been afraid of a great many things.

Mya was still studying her. “If you will allow me to say it your Grace, you look more like your mother this way.”  
  
“You knew Lady Catelynn?” Ser Brienne’s surprise mirrored her own.  
  
“We met, when she came to visit her sister. I guided her from the Gates of the Moon to Sky. Night was falling, and there was a fair bit of wind. She was very brave.”

Sansa did not know what to do with that, this old memory of a mother long gone.  
  
“You told me men come and go.”

Mya smiled, but it did not reach the blue. “They lie, or die, or leave you. Aye.”

“You were right about that.” Some lied. Some died. Her heart felt suddenly empty. 

“Ser Lothor wanted you, if I recall. Did he ever get you?” 

Mya grinned curtly, leaning over the battlements. “He tried, aye. But men come and go, so here we are.”

Down in the courtyard, Cassandra was getting ready for training. It appeared the Lord of Storm’s End was to join her today. Their master at arms was explaining something, his words not carrying up the wall.  
  
“Is there much need for a guide in the Stormlands?”

“Not as much as back home.” Mya allowed. “But I try to keep useful. Try to raise a good daughter. Advise my Lord brother in matters of Lords and Ladies.”

“And does he always listen?”

“He listens. He doesn’t always agree.” She was looking her over again, Sansa noticed, with sharp and steady eyes. “He’s a good man, your Grace. Not a bad rumour to be heard about him. It’s why we came here. Truth be told, we weren’t expecting… well, all of this.” Down below, Cassandra was facing off against Gendry, pressing her attack.

“It’s not always easy for us bastards, to find where we fit into the world.”

Sansa thought of a sullen young boy, and a stuck up little Lady. She used to be so sure of everybody’s place in the world, so sure of what was right. So entitled to all she had.

“Do you remember your father at all?”

The woman shrugged. “Just flashes. Tall and dark of hair, with a booming laugh. He used to toss me up in the air.” Mya winced when her daughter took a tumble in the mud. “Mind you, it’s more than Gendry’s got. Our great and Noble King almost ran him over with his horse once, did you know? It’s as close as he ever got to the man. King Robert never was made to be a father.” Down below, Cassandra was struggling to find her feet. Gendry hauled her up one handed, laughing. “But that one might. He’s good with children. Patient. Firm. Doesn’t belittle.” She pinned Sansa with a grin hard as stone. “Doesn’t treat women like property.”

The yellow of the little Lady’s tunic was all but invisible under the brown. Gendry wiped some of the mud from her cheeks, and laughed when she made a face.

Mya pushed herself up from the battlements. “I’ll tell him about your concerns. Wouldn’t hurt to redo the headcount neither. Last one was three moons back, but there’s been plenty of new faces since then.” She bowed respectfully. “Your Grace. Ser.”  
  
Brienne tracked the woman until she was well out of range. “That one thinks you mean to court her brother.”

The idea was like ice down her back. She’d scoff, if she wasn’t a Queen. “Do you honestly think it likely I’ll ever wed again?”

“Never say never, your grace.” The knight’s voice was too kind for her liking.

“If I _were_ to ever marry again, I would prefer not to share my husband.”  
  
That startled Brienne. “I’m sure you would not have to, your Grace. The rumours all agree, the man is nothing like his father.”

Sansa thought of three years worth of stubborn refusals. Of countless ravens without a single mention. Of Nefer in N’ghai. _I hope your family remains safe, Your Grace_.  
  
“He’s more like his father than you think.”

Ser Brienne was looking at her with a question she had no intention of answering.

“It would be an ill match regardless. Lord Baratheon has duties here, he could never forsaken those to go North.”

Duty again. It was all too easy to come back to it. She wondered what her mother had felt, when she went to live at Winterfell. She had loved another man deeply, and she had mourned him. Yet she had married his brother without complaint, leaving everything behind for a strange and cold world.

Family. Duty. Honour. Had she agreed to marry Joffrey for Honour, or was that just the easy lie she had told herself, to justify the infatuated dreams of a silly girl? Marrying the Bolton Bastard, had that been out of Duty? Was there any hope of Family left out there, somewhere? Or was she doomed to the hope of Arya’s return, to ask of her sister what she refused to ask of herself?  

 

\-------------------

 

Praying used to be easy. Back when she believed Gods and men were good. So she wasn’t entirely sure why her feet had carried her to the Godswood. Perhaps the memories had chased her there. Perhaps she had hoped it would feel like home.

Winterfell’s Godswood was an ancient place, with trees as high as towers, some too wide to throw your arms across. Walk deep enough, and the walls would fade from view. Sounds would drown in the rustling of the leaves. Back home, you could lose yourself to find your way.  
Here, an abundance of green reigned, but the trees were painfully young. There was too much sky, and too much noise, with stone wall visible all around. And the Heart Tree, Gods the Heart Tree… when she spotted it, some deep part of her that belonged to the Old World ached to the bone.  
It wasn’t just gone. It was worse than gone. A grotesque testimony to a hateful history.

Only the husk of a trunk remained, blackened and hollow and twisted. Parts of it still towered slightly over her. Most had been cracked and split to the ground. She carefully stepped over the lowest edge, into the hollow enclosure. Standing where its heart used to be, she could stretch her arms to barely skim the edges of the charred wood. It was almost as big as the one back home, tall and firm and ancient, and they had killed it. She felt a sudden, hot hate for Stannis and his Red Woman.

“Burning things is easy.”

Gendry was standing amidst the green, looking at her. She dropped her arms to her sides. “Destroying always is.”

He approached to touch the black with careful fingers. “It’ll regrow. One day, Cassandra’s children may play in an actual forest again.”

Sansa looked at the vibrant hues beyond the black, the saplings pushing up at the sky. She could see the truth of it, though the ache remained underneath.

“You’ll need a new Heart Tree.”

He was trailing the wood now, walking in a slow circle. “I know. But I’m loath to replace it with something else. Weirwood trees are a rarity, I’m afraid.” 

“Not in the old woods. I’m told they’re even more common beyond the Wall.”

He smiled at that. “I might have to make a trip of it then. Makes for a fine excuse to finally visit Jon, if nothing else.”

He halted in front of the widest breach, and she stepped to the side in silent invitation. He cocked his head with a questioning grin.

“This how you play come-into-my-castle?”

She smiled pleasantly. “Don’t pretend to know the games us Highborns play, my Lord.” This wolf could be a bird, when needed. In the game, songs worked better than teeth.

_Stag or Storm? Will you bolt or break?_

He hesitated a second more, before joining her. The tree had been large in life. Dead, it left plenty of room to talk face to face.  
  
“You think of Jon as a friend, yes?”  
  
He nodded. “I do, your Grace.” 

So very formal. It simply would not do. “Would you say you think of me as a friend as well?”

A flicker of surprise. “Of course, your Grace.”  
  
“My friends call me Sansa.” She took half a step closer.

He frowned. Tried the sound of it. “Sansa.”

Another half a step. “Gendry.” And another. They were of a size, him and her. “There are those that think we would be a good fit.”

He reeled back with a flit of panic in his eyes. His broad shoulders hit the wood, and he tensed. A Stag, waiting to bolt. The wolf in her grinned. It was almost unfair.

“Could you think of a better match for yourself?” Half a step left.

He moved before she could.

She gasped as his hand closed around her wrist. “Sansa.” The other rested gently on her shoulder. “Stop.” 

Her smile was slow. Cold. “You dare to touch a Queen?”

“I dare to touch a friend, when she’s being stupid.” There was no panic left, just determination. “What are you doing?”

Odd. A Stag should have run. And a Storm… well.

“Is there someone else then?”  
  
And there it was. That wounded look, darkening the blue. He looked away, but she grasped his chin, surprising him. Tried to look beyond that shield of pain. For a heartbeat or two, he let her. When he pulled away, her heart was thundering.

In the confines of the dead tree, her voice was not unlike a snarl, low and harsh. “Does she even know what she could have, this stupid girl of yours?" 

“She is not stupid!” He snapped, dark and angry. “She is headstrong, aye, and wild, and infuriatingly wilful. She-“

“She has a _name_.”

The storm faltered. “Aye. That she does.”

Suddenly he did look ready to bolt, but she would not have it. Not now.

“Go on then.”

He was looking past her now, to a far off point. She allowed the silence to linger.

“Arya.” His voice broke on her name. He tried again, stronger. “Arya Stark, of Winterfell.”

She had known, of course. Now she was sure.

“And here I thought you didn’t care for Ladies.”

He smiled into the nothingness. “She’s no Lady, your Grace.”

He knew her, then. Really knew her. How did that come to pass? Was her own sister still such a stranger to her?  
  
When he finally deemed to look at her again, it was with dawning comprehension. “You already knew.” He looked confused rather than angry. “Why didn’t you just ask?”

_Because men lie and die and leave._ “Would you have answered?”

He scoffed. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Friends”, she agreed.

“Good.“ His hug was sudden and warm and, somehow, very welcome.  

“Never do that again.”

She smiled into his tunic. The man was surprisingly soft. “Promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a slow writer, it's true. I write a bit here, a bit there, I patch it together, write some patches for later, and then I rewrite, rewrite, rewrite. 
> 
> I'll be away on holiday for about a week and a half without the internet, so chapter 5 might be a bit delayed. 
> 
> Again, thanks for reading!


	5. Brienne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He’s good at this.”
> 
> A cool breeze was blowing, a welcome shift after the warm hall. It looked like rain. Again. 
> 
> “Yes, he is”, the Queen agreed. 
> 
> “Makes you wonder though. All of them claimed a crown. Why didn’t he?”

Sword met sword under a cloudy sky. The two combatants circled, pulled together, clashed, circled again.  
To the Commander of the King’s Guard, this was comfort. Focus. In a fight, the world grew small and clear, with only one purpose. This was her dance. This she knew.

With a yelp of pain, Lady Baratheon dropped her weapon. Her knuckles and cheeks burned angry red as she hastened to pick it up.

Brienne lowered her sword. “Tell me where you went wrong.”

Cassandra shrugged in sullen silence. Brienne sighed. She never complained, that one, not about the bruises or the mud or the aches, but Gods could she be stubborn.  
  
“You hesitated. You over think. If this were a real fight, you’d be dead trice over.”  
  
“It’s not a real fight”, her charge protested. “It’s just practice.”  
  
“Stop treating it as such. You falter at decisive moments when you ought to push through. Do you think your enemy will give you that time?” 

Cassandra faltered under her stern look.

“You do not train until you get it right. You train until you cannot get it wrong. When the mind blanks, the muscles remember. Trust your body.”  
  
Cassandra looked as sullen as the sky. “Even if I get a hit in, it’s not going to do me any good. You’re twice my size.”  
  
“Don’t give me that cheek. You don’t need brute strength. Accuracy is deadlier than force. You think Lady Arya killed the Knight King with force? You’re smart. You don’t follow where I lead, you’re quick and got a good eye. Let them run themselves out of steam while you dance around them.”

 _Wait and watch girl, wait and watch._ She wondered vaguely what Ser Goodwin would think of her now.

She raised her sword. “Now stop defending, and attack me.”

It went a little better after that. Brienne battered her relentlessly, and Cassandra lost her weapon only twice more. When the knight finally called a stop, the little Lady was sticky with mud and sweat.

“Good. Better. We’ll train again tomorrow. Go clean up before dinner. I’ll take the swords.”

They had switched from wood to sparring, the steel carefully dulled. Some would say it was a bit early for steel perhaps, but the girl was progressing rapidly. When she dipped into the armoury to put them away, she was past surprised to see Lord Baratheon there. The man’s love for steel was well known. The cup of water he had ready for her did surprise. He took the swords in trade.

“She looks slightly less muddy than yesterday.”  
  
Brienne drank deep. “There is progress, to be sure. Her form is good, better than most of her age. She’s quick, both of wit and of feet. I’d say her biggest fault is lack of confidence.”

He returned the swords to their proper place on the training rack. “As faults go, I’m told that’s not the worst one to have. She’ll learn. I have no doubt about that.” 

She drained her cup, deciding on her words. “If I make a suggestion, my Lord? There are more ways to fight besides the sword. Her skills might be well suited for some diversity. Expand upon her training.”

“Aye, it’s not a bad idea. She would welcome the challenge too.” He offered her a refill, which she gratefully accepted. “I was wondering if I could convince you to join us after dinner? We’re having a Council meet, and Mya mentioned you had certain things to say about our defences.”

“I meant no offence, my Lord.”

“None taken. If the Lord Commander of the King’s Guard has an opinion, I’d be a fool not to listen. After dinner then.”

“After dinner”, Brienne agreed.

 

\-----------------------------------

 

She found she was starving. Training Cassandra always proved a proper workout. Dinner was roasted chicken with herb-basted potatoes and sweet buttered corn. Plain but filling fare. She dined in the company of Ser Podrick and Queen Sansa, indulging in one cup of watered down wine. When Sansa offered her a lemon cake she declined, naming them too sweet for her liking. It was the only food offered to the dais exclusively, she noted. She suspected the kitchen had made them for the Queen special.

After dinner the tables were cleared, the people ushered out. The Storm Council usually met in the Lord’s study, but today its members had almost been doubled. Chairs were added to the dais instead, with one placed at the head for Queen Sansa. Lord Gendry took the seat to her left, joined on that side by his Steward, his Maester, and Mya. Brienne took the seat to the right, and was joined by Ser Davos and the Lady Cassandra.  
  
Once they were all settled in, Lord Baratheon stood. “Before we begin, I’d like to thank our honoured guests for joining us today. We are very grateful for any of your insights. Except for you, Davos. You’re just here because Cas likes you.”

His Steward gave a startled little squeak, and dropped some of the papers he was shuffling. Ser Davos was less impressed. “That’s still Ser Davos to you, son.”  
  
Lord Gendry sat down with a grin. “Alright, to business. I had a look at the points of interest for today. Let’s get the unpleasant one off the table first. Marillion, is our final payment to the Crown going to be managed on time?”  
  
Marillion the Steward cleared his throat. “All signs are favourable, my Lord. This year’s harvest is proving to be bountiful. Even taking our population and storage needs into account, we should still be left with enough surplus to turn a profit.” The man talked with the flair of declaring tourney pairings. He surely was loud enough for it. “So in conclusion, we are well ahead of last year.”

“We’ve come a long way”, the Maester agreed. “Remember our first harvest? What a disaster that was.”  
  
“City folk aint farmers, we knew that when we took them in. Seems to me they took to it well enough.”  
  
“After a fashion, yes”, the steward allowed.  
  
“So that is a yes on our debt being paid in full after this season?” Mya pulled the conversation back on track.

“Yes. But! If I might make a suggestion.”

“You may if you use your inside voice, Marillion.” 

He produced a pained smile, and lowered his voice a smidge. “We are presently ahead of the payment plan, and as such, we could withhold from paying for another half a year, use the surplus for other means.” He shuffled his papers importantly and drew out a list, neatly prepared.

Lord Gendry frowned. “I don’t remember our list being that long.”  
  
“I took the liberty of adding a few, ah, suggestions, my Lord.”  
  
Brienne wasn’t sure, but she thought she had heard Lady Cassandra sigh. Mya quirked a brow, but kept quiet.

“There are the minor repairs to the castle, of course, and you did ask me about cost and time of stoning and covering the central market square. But if I may point out a few pressing vacancies in our staff? We still do not have a Falconer on the payroll, nor a permanent Minstrel.”  


Lord Baratheon looked at him blankly. “And how are those supposed to keep the rain out?”

Ser Davos was smiling, Brienne noted. To her right, Queen Sansa was silently studying Marillion.

“Falcons don’t hunt well in rain”, Mya supplied. “You could theoretically use them in slighter weather, if you don’t mind them catching colds. Might be best to just stick to hunting with bow and spear, save yourself the trouble of sick birds.” 

Marillion plunged on. “Well, it’s more for the look of the thing, my Lord. We’ve been entertaining a lot of guests, and those positions would add some manner of status to your Halls.”

Brienne could already tell it was no good. Lord Gendry had gotten that telltale stubborn look. “Tell you what, if our guests want to go hunting, I’ll be a good and proper Lord and take them into the Rainwoods. And if a Minstrell washes up, I promise we’ll keep him fed until he grows bored of us. Will that suffice?”

“As you will, my Lord.” To his credit, Marillion was doing his best not to look too crestfallen as he scratched the items off his list. 

“Since we’re talking about staff, my Lord?” The Maester’s chains were many, but the man still wore them with a strong, straight back. “I would be grateful for an acolyte to help me with the ravens. My sight is not what it was, I’m afraid.”

“You’re still leagues ahead of my letters, Maester Eomer. Is it just the ravens? Or do you need help in the village as well?”  
  
“Not at this moment. Health is up and holding steady, my Lord. We’ve got the usual colds, a broken bone here and there. Nothing too serious.” He sighed. “Mostly it’s the eyes. I must confess, my age is catching up with me.”

Lord Gendry nodded. “I’ll write the Citadel, see if they can spare us one.”

“Ask for my Steffon”, Davos supplied. “He might like the chance to be closer to home. He’s been gone so long, I’ve forgotten what he looked like.”

Marillion jotted it down. “I shall make a note of it, My Lord. Next on the list, ah, it would be a breath of relief to finally expand upon the menu.”  
  
“What’s wrong with the food?” Queen Sansa asked. The Steward turned a very delicate shade of pink.

“Your Grace, I… surely our fare it is a bit too common for the likes of… Queens and Lords.”

He means himself, Brienne realised. He’s used to better.

Sansa was looking at him, unsmiling. “I have eaten richer fare with richer folk, it’s true. The company was often atrocious, and the way they treated their people beyond appalling. Would you prefer peacocks and stuffed pigs over a healthy population?”

The man was gradually growing more pink, stunned into silence.

Lord Gendry grunted his approval. “Long as we have good, proper food in our bellies, I fail to see the urgency of daily lemon cakes.”

“They were delicious, and much appreciated.” Sansa smiled at him. A true smile, Brienne noted. “Do thank the kitchens for me.”

With the Queen’s eyes no longer on him, Marillion found his voice again. “But, my Lord, the guests—“  
  
“Let them complain about the food. If it’s all they complain about, I’ll consider myself a happy man. What else?”

Marillion looked slightly crestfallen.  

“Might there be room in the budget to expand upon your defences?” Brienne had an inkling the subject was nowhere on that list, long as it was. “Might not hurt to put some funds towards that. Your town is growing rapidly. I am unsure if the whole population would still fit behind your walls during a siege.”

This did seem to concern the Lord. “Small as we are, we surely can find room to house… When was last count again?”  
  
“Three moons ago, my Lord.”

“Lets count them again. A lot can change in three moons. We’re still attracting new people, it seems. Mya, can you take care of it? Take Cas along, it’ll be good for her to mingle with her people.”

“Could we note status, while we’re at it?” Cassandra spoke up for the first time, timid but clear. “I mean, it’ll help to know about skills and such. And won’t it be good to know how many still use the Food Drive, and why? And how many orphans remain at the Septons?”

“That would be valid information”, the Queen agreed. “I’d say noting skill, occupation, and age would be very useful.”

 Maester Eomer nodded. “Useful indeed. We’d also have a clear count on our men of fighting age.”  
  
“ _And_ women”, Mya added. 

“Women don’t fight”, Marillion added delicately.  
  
Cassandra bristled. “I do!” She pointed at Ser Brienne. “She does!”

“There are always exceptions to the rule”, the Maester intercepted soothingly. “Our Lady still makes a valid point. We are currently at peace, long may it last, but the future is ever fickle. Expanding upon Lady Cassandra’s idea, might be some training of the foot folk could come in handy one day.” 

“Agreed.” Lord Gendry motioned to his sister. “Mya, Cas, I’ll leave this to you two. Full headcount, noting age, occupation, family status, and if they are fighting fit. Age is not always a definite in that regards. Men and women both, please.”

“Yes Uncle.” Cassandra was beaming.

“Marillion, could you crunch some numbers for me, look into how many people we could comfortably hold during a siege? Once we have that and our new tally, we’ll go from there.” He paused, a strange look in his eyes, not quite angry. “As for training the folks, it’s a good idea. Peace is fickle, and brotherhoods rather rare.” Were we fail them, they should be able to defend themselves. I’ll look into it.”

He turned to his Steward. “What’s left on your list?”

“Well… there is the project of the statues. But I suppose that could be counted as another frivolity.”  
  
Lord Baratheon grew ponderous. “It is, and it isn’t. History is important. And we have an opportunity here not often presented. Both Ser Brienne and Ser Davos are currently with us. Do you have the sketches?”  
  
From the bottom of the pile, three pieces of paper were produced, and passed to Ser Brienne and Ser Davos. They were sketches of three men, front, side and back, with distinctive Baratheon looks. All three were wearing crowns.  
  
Brienne reached for Renly at the same time Ser Davos reached for Stannis.

“I was hoping to add their likeness to the Godswood. But I’ve never met them personally, and find it hard to judge. The artists have done their best, of course.” The Lord looked suddenly nervous. “What do you think?”

Brienne looked down at her late King, and found the sadness not as heavy as it once was. He was drawn fairly accurate. The artist had clearly known his looks, if not his manners.  
  
“He should be smiling”, she offered. His smile had meant everything to her, once. “He was a kind man. Remember him that way.”

Next to her, Ser Davos was staring at his own past. “Just the men of the family, then? That doesn’t sound like you, lad.”  
  
Lord Gendry raked a hand through his hair. “I would very much like to add the Princess Shireen, but nobody seems to remember what she looked like. Her mother hid her too well from the world, it seems.”  
  
Ser Davos looked up sharply. “I remember her. I’ll always remember her. She was good and kind and a wonder. I’ll sit with your artists, if that’s what it takes.” 

“Done, old friend. We’ll get it started. Hopefully the clay models can be done before our guests have to return to their own keeps.” 

He reached out to reclaim the papers. Brienne held on to hers a little longer.

“Have him… have him hold a rose.” Lord Gendry looked confused, but had them make a note of it all the same.  
  
It wasn’t much, she knew. But it was something. She had been jealous, once. How foreign the feeling felt.

   
\----------------------

 

“He’s good at this.”

A cool breeze was blowing, a welcome shift after the warm hall. It smelled of rain. Again.  
  
“Yes, he is”, the Queen agreed.

“Makes you wonder though. All of them claimed a crown. Why didn’t he?”

“What, a lowborn gutter rat like me?”

He had stepped outside behind them. When Lord Baratheon smiled at her, she was suddenly struck with how much it made him look like Renly. It hurt a little. He was older though. Older now than his uncle. How strange that was.

She found her voice again. “We’ve had worse kings.”

He harrumphed. “Aye, and better. Let me worry about this lot. It’s more than enough work.” He bowed. “Your Grace. Ser.”  
  
She watched him cross the courtyard, then turned to Lady Sansa. She was watching the Lord of Storms End with a calculated gaze. Something about that was strange as well, but she couldn’t quite define why. 

“May I ask, Your Grace. How long do you plan on staying?”

Lady Sansa smiled, her eyes never leaving her mark.  
  
“Until the next raven.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it took forever, but there are good reasons! 
> 
> Reason one: England and Scotland are amazing. Go there if you ever can. So many castles. I did not want to leave.
> 
> Reason two: I was halfway done with my chapter when it turned out, this whole other chapter had to come before that. My mind works strangely. 
> 
> As always, feedback appreciated :)


	6. Gendry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Gendry.”
> 
> The voice brooked no argument, and so he turned. She was looking at him with open confusion.
> 
> “Ask.”
> 
> He shook his head, curtly. _If I ask, I am lost._

He wakes with a chill down his spine. There is a wolf, howling in the woods. He jolts from the forest floor, squinting beyond the fire. It has burned down to a simmer, and the moon has hidden itself behind heavy clouds. Dark, too dark. He hurries to the edge of camp, stumbling and cursing. Too dark and too loud. He kicks out at the snoring heap.

Hot Pie wakes with a yelp. “I only closed ‘em for a second!”  
  
“Quiet!” Gendry growls. He clasps a hand over his mouth, crouching down. Listening.  
  
The wolf howls again, long and loud. In his grasp, Hot Pie gives a little whimper.  
  
“Wake the fire. Find your sword.” He keeps his voice low and steady. “Go.”

The panic doesn’t come until he turns to a silent camp.  
  
She has never been a deep sleeper.

He wills himself not to shout. _Sword. Get your sword._ He makes for it, back past the dying fire. The forest floor shifts and panic surges, until his eyes adjust. She is twitching in her sleep, turning and trashing. His hands reach for her shoulders, sword forgotten.

“Arya?”

She doesn’t wake. Next to him, Hot Pie is babbling in a frenzy, but the meaning doesn’t reach. The fire is growing to a blaze, and he can see her now. She is rigid under his touch, kicking and panting. 

“Arya!” The wolf howls. In her sleep, Arya whines.

He shakes her, and again, panic shifting into fear. “ARYA!”

Her eyes snap open. They’re wild and unseeing, strangely pale. 

She blinks, and the veil shifts.  
  
_“Gendry.”_

\------------------------

He woke with a chill down his spine. Howling still rung in his ears. The covers were too heavy, too warm. He was soaked with sweat. Light came filtering through the central shaft.

Light, and the howl of a wolf.

He reached for a sword that wasn’t there. The Lord of Storm’s end did not sleep on a bed of moss. No watch was needed here, nor fire. The wolf howled again. It drew him towards the inner wall. There were no windows in his room, but sky was only one floor above. He stuck his head into the shaft, looking up. The sky was clear for once. At the heart of the tower, the howling sounded all around.

A sudden shriek pulled him back into the room. One of the servants was frozen at the door, her eyes firmly fixed on the fresh sheets she was bringing in.

“Begging me pardons, Melord.” Her terror made him stumble back, grasping for a tunic.

“Why didn’t anyone wake me?”

“We usually don’t have to, Melord.” She blushed cherry red. “Would… shall I come back later?”

He pulled the tunic over his head. “Later. Yes. Just… go. Please.” 

She was gone before he could figure out he put it on backwards.

\----------------------------

He stomped down towards the central courtyard. Something in the way he walked seemed to warn the servants, and they scurried off left and right at his approach. It was a very new sensation, and slightly off putting. He made an effort to smoothe down his features. Behind his back, fingers clenched and unclenched. He had an irritating urge to hit something.  
  
The yard was full of wagons and busy chaos. Ser Brienne and the Queen were talking to his steward, over by the gate. His niece was nowhere to be seen. Seems he missed her morning training. He squinted up at the blazing sun. How bloody long did he sleep?

“It’s just people, Marillion. They don’t bite.” Ser Brienne’s voice was soothing, as if she was talking to a spooked horse.

“No, but wolves do!”

Sansa turned at his approach. “Good morning, my Lord. Lady Cassandra and Mya are down at the village. Marillion is worried about their wellbeing.”

There was a question in those eyes. He forced a smile. _Fine. I’m fine._

“Maester Eomer went with them”, Ser Brienne continued. “As did Ser Podrick. It’s the middle of the day, no wolf is going to walk straight into a bustling village.”

Marillion remained unconvinced. “Maester Eomer is not as young as he used to. And Ser Podrick isn’t staying. As our future Lady of the House, she needs a proper guard, is all I’m saying.”

_The man had a point._ “Your concern is touching. I’ll keep it under advisement.” His Steward seemed pleased enough at that, and scampered off to finish preparations. Ser Brienne too, dismissed herself with a curt nod.  
  
Left alone in the presence of the Queen, Gendry had a sudden urge to evade questions. “When do you leave, your Grace?”  
  
She kept her eyes on him. They were as clear as today’s sky. “First light tomorrow.”

“My cook will be relieved to hear it. We are all out of lemons.”

He was glad to see her smile. She so rarely did. “Do you need anything else before you leave?”

“A few things, if you can spare them. A cage of your ravens, for one. I’d be loathe to run out.” 

Her smile was infectious. “You shall have them. And I’ll make sure Maester Eomer warns me ahead of time before we run out on our end. Still, let us not wait another three years to meet face to face again.” 

“Let’s not”, she agreed. “I do find I enjoy your company.” 

He had a sudden urge to wrap an arm around her shoulder. Somehow, he doubted she said this to many people.

“Will you join me in the library, tonight?” 

“The library, your Grace?” 

“You told me to just ask.” There was a tightness to her smile. “I’d like to know, before I go.”

He did say that, didn’t he? So why did he want to refuse? “I will find you after dinner.”  
  
“After dinner”, she confirmed. “Ser Davos was asking for you as well.” Her touch on his arm was light as a feather. “Be kind. He means well.”  


\----------------------------

He found his old friend at the stonemasons. Clay busts of the three Baratheons were up on display, pending final approval.

“Slept in, did you?” Davos was turning something over in his hands, standing over at the fourth bust. Gendry had never met his niece, but he could see the family resemblance. Shireen had a friendly, open look. Even with all the scarring, she was pretty in her own way. Davos had been quite adamant about the greyscale. Mostly, she looked so very young. 

“Which stones shall you use?”  
  
The wood in his hands was dark. The shape of it was hard to distinguish, as it was turned and turned again. He felt his own fingers twitching.

“Mya suggested marble from the Vale. While it does weather the elements better than most, it does tend to dull with age. The Queen has suggested Granite. It has apparently served the Starks well.”

The old man grunted. “You two seem to be getting along quite well.” 

“As well as one can, I imagine.” 

“I’d say better than most.”

Gendry frowned, suddenly wary. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Servants talk, lad. They saw you and her Grace the Queen being… intimate. In the Godswood.”

He shouldn’t be surprised. And he wasn’t, truly. Pissed off, more like.

Davos raised his brows at the colourful response. “Language, Lord Baratheon.”  
  
“That was _completely_ innocent. It was a hug, Davos. Nothing more!” He was entirely unsure he liked the way he was being looked at. 

“In all the years you have known her, have you ever known her to hug anyone? Touch, even?”

He groaned in utter frustration. “She is _lonely_. What kind of a match could hold up to a Queen?”  
  
That seemed to amuse him. “Are you playing matchmaker? You? With your own family quarters cold and empty?”

“That’s not fair.” Gendry’s scowl was hard. “I have family.”

“Aye son, you do.” There was a sadness to his smile. “But there could be more to life, if you’d give it half a chance.” On and on the blackened wood turned. It was a stag, Gendry suddenly realised. Or used to be.  
  
“Not everyone has it in them to be a father. A true father.” Davos clasped the figure tight. “Think on that, will you? For an old man’s sake.”  


\----------------------------

The Stormlanders had a lot of different words for rain. They surely had a name for this, when the wind twisted it around in uneven gales. He trudged through it, unheeding the mud splattering everywhere.

It was all Sansa’s fault. Lady Sansa. Her Grace. Queen Stark. He took the stairs two at a time, occasionally slipping. He was doing fine, absolutely fine. He was walking his path, taking his responsibilities.

Was it truly so odd to find a perfect Heir in Cassandra? And wasn’t he free to deny any and all proposals offered to him? They had all been so very proper, and pretty, and utterly boring beyond compare. Out of the lot of them, only Lady Alynne had left an impression, simply by refusing him before he could refuse her. It had been a harsh truth, when she named his heart already taken, and declared herself unwilling to fight a lost cause.

He was breathing hard by the time he arrived on top of the curtain wall. So what if her Majesty the Queen reminded him of Winterfell? So what if his bed and his chambers remained empty? Was he supposed to marry out of convenience, as King Robert had? Fill the world with bastards to ignore? He once knew only enough about Queen Cersei to fear her. Later, he wondered what could have been, if only King Robert had found it in himself to love her.

The rain was coming down in gales. The wall was his alone, his and the thunderous sea. The wind was howling past, gripping at his cloak. His hair was soaked, sticking to his face.

He used to cut hers for her, when it got too long. 

His fingers twitched. Reached. He forced his hand shut, and kicked the parapet hard enough to hurt. 

He wasn’t supposed to regret this. Not usually. He had wanted all of this. The name. The job. And he was good at it, if not at first. Too coarse. Too calloused. Rough around the edges. But he had polished, and polished, steady and stubborn, until it shone. He had made it his, and he was making a difference, and he was supposed to be doing absolutely fine.  
  
_Aye._ _And she was supposed to be back by now._  
  
The clouds and gales made the horizon hard to read. Was it truly too much to hope for, her still being somewhere out there? To spot that direwolf sail one unremarkable, rainy day?  
  
And what did that hope make him? _  
_

_She’s dead_ , he tried. _Dead and gone. Bury her._  
  
She had been dead before. Slaughtered at the Red Wedding. Overrun at the Battle of Winterfell. Buried in the ashes of the Capital. Fallen off the map. It burned, his refusal, hot in his throat. She was strong, and tenacious, and he was nothing if not stubborn. He wondered what she’d have to say about that. She’d arch one of those damn brows, surely. Maybe push him. Wrestle him.

Kiss him.

His fingers were twitching again. _Too much to hope for, indeed._

He used to cut her hair and stand watch for her. Back when the world was cruel but simple. She was still a part of him. A shared history. Mud and blood, strife and terror. He’d be dead without her. They’d all be dead without her.

_Not just you._

He stared out across the sea. Underneath the storm, the water was wild and grey.

_She doesn’t belong to you._

\----------------------------

“Where would you like me to begin?”  
  
The library was full of silent darkness. There was only the light of the lantern her sister had brought in. He was suddenly unsure he wanted to do this.  
  
“The beginning seems adequate.”

There was a softness in Sansa’s face others rarely saw. It made it hard to start. Harder to continue. She said nothing at all, sitting still as a statue while he blundered on and on. About their Lord Father’s dead. The Night Watch lads. The road, the shared smiles and the dangers, and her strength through it all. The terrors of Harrenhall. The Hound and the knife. The brotherhood. 

He didn’t tell her everything. Not all of it. How he’d scold her to sit still, cutting away at her matted strands. How her name was so very hard for him to say, once he found her to be Highborn. How it slipped from him, sometimes, when he worried about her. The grief in her eyes when she learned he meant to leave her. The boldness in them as she propositioned him. Her soft smiles.  
Those parts he kept. Those bits were his.

And then he came up to the end, and found it a dull ache. A story cut short in a sudden goodbye.

He hadn’t kissed her. Friends don’t just kiss, after all. Not when the world wasn’t ending. Not for something as simple as a goodbye. But there were words that needed saying. About how drunk he had been. On ale, on living, on a title, and how he shouldn’t have.

How he was sorry.  
  
I’m not, she had said, and he had known she meant it. Knew she was leaving anyway.  
  
“Did she tell you what it is she hoped to find?”

He grimaced into the darkness. “Arya Stark.”  
  
He had wanted to shake her. Hold her. _She’s here. She’s right here._  
  
Instead, he had let her go. 

“I wished her safe travels. Told her she’d always be welcome at my keep.” He tried a smile. “I might have called her Milady one last time.”

“What did she have to say about that?”

“Made me promise never to call her that again.” _Made me promise to write her sister._  
  
Not for you, she had told him. You’ll be fine. You’ll be great. Do it for her. For me.

“Thank you for asking, Sansa.” It still felt strange to use her name. But the way it warmed her features, he found he could learn to deal with it. “For a Queen, you’re quite easy to talk to. Your company will be greatly missed.” He stood, and bowed. “I shall see you off at the gate tomorrow. Good night, your Grace.”

He should have known he would not get away so easily.  
  
“Gendry.”

The voice brooked no argument, and so he turned. She was looking at him with open confusion.

“Ask.”

He shook his head, curtly. _If I ask, I am lost._

“It’s only going to distract me.”

“It’s already distracting you. Ask.”

Something in the way she said it made him stay. Made him hope.

“Do you have… do you know if...” He tried again. “Is she safe?”  
  
“She is.” Her grin was impossibly wide, and for a moment he forgot to breathe, warm to his very core. She stood, and moved the lantern closer. 

“Bran found her at the very edge. He is tracking her for me.” There was a map, on the table. How did he not notice that before? Her fingers were dancing over it. Dancing… east?

“My dear sister confirmed our world is round, apparently”, Sansa supplied dryly. 

He chocked on a laugh, devouring the strange lands. There was a line, he found. Starting from the very edge, connected to a mark at a seaside city called Nefer. It followed the shoreline, passing through Howling Hills, towards a city he gave up on trying to read. To the west, a road weaved trough a mountain range. Another mark had been made there, right on top.

“She is taking the Steel Road, to cross the Teeth. Towards Vaes Dothrak.” 

Alive. Safe. _Coming back._

Sansa started as he dashed around the table, hugging her sudden and flush against his chest. He laughed, and kissed her hair, and soon found her laughing with him.  
  
“I suppose those Dothraki better watch out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some people asked where Arya is. Now you know :p *points at map*
> 
> We've got a ways to go, but she'll get there. 
> 
> Writing is hard, you guys. Especially during a heat wave. Chapter 7 is in progress. I'll try not to melt first. 
> 
> And so many kind comments! I'm having a lot of fun with this, and you are all making it that much more enjoyable. Thank you!


	7. Cassandra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _They’re all counting on me._
> 
> Some days, the idea excited her. Other days, it completely terrified her. 
> 
> _I have to learn. And care. Their wellbeing is my concern, now and always._

Something was wrong with her uncle.

She frowned sternly at the inner wall of her room. The servants had left the shutters from the inner shaft open, to allow for ventilation. It was raining. She stared at the drops, chasing each other on their way down. 

Something was wrong with her uncle, and she was the only one who cared. Hells, she probably was the only one who knew.

“That’s this side done. Turn for me, my Lady?”

She obediently shuffled around, taking care not to thread on the fabric. At her feet, Allie was pinning up the hem, humming a song through lips shut over pins. The dress was a deep blue, simple but warm. It used to be her mothers, even though she had no memory of her ever wearing it. It was too long, but she’d grow into it eventually. Two more years, and I’ll be as tall as her, she vowed. Five, and I’ll beat my uncle. He’ll have to smile up to me, then. He’d like that. If he ever remembered how to smile. 

“Done. Arms up." 

They took the dress off her, momentarily shutting the world out. She hated those parts, but it was hardly their fault women’s clothes were made to be complicated. She shut her eyes, concentrating on the sound of rain. If only she could appear at the feast in her sparring clothes. She’d settle for a simple tunic and breaches. 

“I hate dresses.”

The world returned, and with it Allie’s openly annoyed face. “Should I just stop?"

A blush heated Cassandra’s face. She had torn the sleeve of her new tunic only yesterday, catching the edge of a door. “It was an accident. I hardly did it on purpose.”

Allie tutted. “One does not run in their good clothes. You have plenty of other ones for that.” She pointed one of her pins at her. “Next time, I’m teaching you how to sew. Might be you’d pay a bit more attention if you had to mend them yourself.”

“That’s fair”, she conceded with a grin. “Can I go now? I don’t want to be late for practice." 

“Aye, more mud.” Allie sighed. “Go on then, be off with you. Your Snake is not a very patient teacher. I’ll try to mend that tunic before the feast, but no promises.”

“You’re the best, Allie.”

The women simply tossed her her training clothes. “Stop buttering me up and go, before you get yelled at some more.”  
  
Cassandra went, taking the stairs down to the weaponry two at a time. Today, she chose her new battle hammer, an early nameday gift from her Uncle. It was only half the size as his, meant to be wielded one handed. She swung it a couple of times, getting a feel for the weight. It won’t cut a man in two, he had said, and you still lack the strength to crush bone. But it’ll ring his bell something fierce if your aim is true. He had carved a stag in one side of the head, and a castle with three towers in the other, for the father who had never cared enough to give her those arms. The end of the hammerhead tapered out in a sharp point, to better find the slits in the armour. He had trained with her every day that week, showing her how to strike as well as block, until it felt like a part of her arm.

But that was before, and this was now.

Elia was waiting for her in the courtyard. She was holding her staff behind her back, catching the warm rain on her face. Her outfit was plain and comfortable, but elegant in its own way, leaving a lot of skin bare. Two months she’d been here, and Elia still refused to dress in what she named ‘the prudish way’. It drove Marillion to wits end, and he had tried everything from pleading to bribing, and even on one particular brave day, threatening. Elia had laughed at all of it. I have knocked men off their horses twice your size and thrice your girth, she had taunted. Unless you mean to challenge me, leave me be. You don’t even have a horse for me to claim. What’s in it for me to fight you?

She was unsmiling as Cassandra took up position. This was not new. The woman rarely smiled outside of battle.

“You are late.”

“No I’m not”, she shot back. “You’re just trying to get me on the defensive.”

“And yet it still worked.” She nodded at the battle hammer. “Are you any good with that?

Cassandra twirled it, the weight of it comfortable in her hand. “A little.” 

“I don’t waste my time on little things”, the woman scoffed.

She felt the heat flush. “Good enough to ring some bells.”  
  
“Then why didn’t you say that?”

She resisted the urge to dig a foot into the mud. _Plant your feet. Tall and firm as a tree._ “They tell me boasting is unbecoming.”  
  
Her expression did not soften. “Truth is not boasting. Truth will rarely come from those facing you. Especially since you are a girl.”  
  
“You are a girl too.”  
  
“No. I am a lance.” Elia Sand twirled the staff in front of her. “Shall we begin?” 

She’d been eating a lot more mud since Elia had taken over her training. Uncle had warned her about that, when she had first arrived at Storm’s End. Elia Sand has a ruthless reputation, he had said. All the Sandsnakes do. Dorne is a hard place. Do not expect softness from her.

So she had expected the bruises. But the words, those had come unheeded. Whenever they fought, Elia would lash out with them, sudden and unprovoked, over and over. It drew her out of her concentration, tipped her out of balance. Bruises she could take, bruises were just another lesson, but to this kind of battering, she found herself defenceless. One day she had snapped under the taunts, and ran out of the yard crying. Elia had found her in the Godswood, and if she had expected soothing words, she had been vastly mistaken. The Sandsnake had hauled her straight up, all but snarling in her face.

“Words are wind, but wind can cut. Ever been in a sandstorm, little one? Even the smallest grains of sand turn deadly. You either learn to arm yourself, or perish.” Her eyes had been dark and hard as flint. “You are a storm. Act like it.”

It was a lesson she would not soon forget. And so she’d fight, and endure, while her teacher would laugh and taunt her. Every day she’d wack her across the yard with that damn staff of her, and she would go to bed battered and bruised, matching the colour of her mother’s dress. And every morning, she’d return for more.  
  
She _liked_ Elia. Elia wasn’t careful with her. Whenever she managed to score a hit, she would laugh in her face, and dare her to hit her again. With Elia, she was learning. And she had to learn. One day, she’d be the Lady of Storm’s End.

_They’re all counting on me._

Some days, the idea excited her. Other days, it completely terrified her. 

_I have to learn. And care. Their wellbeing is my concern, now and always._

And something was wrong with her Uncle. 

It came rushing back at her after training, that constant nagging, like a pup nipping at her heels. It made her decide on a detour, passing by the library. Steffon would be there, she knew. Maester Eomer generally didn’t need him during the day, and the boy had steadily been reading his way through their collection ever since he got here. At this rate, he’d probably be done before the year was out.

She slipped into the vast room, finding it completely empty, save for the blonde mop of hair at his usual table. He looked a lot like his father when he was reading, all concentration and seriousness. Except he never smiled, and he still had all of his fingers.

“Have you seen my uncle?”

Steffon didn’t look up from his current tome. “Why do you ask questions you already know the answer to?”

“Who said I know the answer?” She loomed over his shoulder, trying to see. Today it was something boring about heraldry, apparently. 

“If you want to talk to me, just say so.”  
  
“Alright. Can we talk?”  
  
“No.” He slid the book away from her. “I’m reading.”

_Useless._ She stomped off, loudly, the sound echoing between the shelves. “I’ll just go then. He’s probably at the forge. He always is lately.”

He still wasn’t looking up. “If you know this, then why are you bothering me about it?”  
  
She made a point to slam the library door, and took some small comfort in his cry of protest. She was usually good with people. Everyone said so. Steffon was different somehow, which was incredibly infuriating. He made her feel stupid all the time. She _hated_ feeling stupid.

There were only a few apprentice smiths working in the main forge. They dipped their heads respectfully when she passed. The annex at the back was quite new, but to her, it had always been there. It had been built for him especially, she knew. It allowed him to work on his own projects without being underfoot. He was stoking the fire with a pained expression on his face. Judging by the sweat seeped into his tunic, he had been at it some time.

“I trained with my new hammer today.” 

He looked up sudden and startled, worrying her even more. Her uncle was usually not so easy to sneak up on. She lifted the weapon hesitantly. “It went pretty well, for a first time, I mean. She still beat me around the yard, of course.” 

Why was he being so quiet? What had she even come to say? Suddenly unsure, she put the hammer down.

He snatched it back from the coals with a harsh hiss. “Careful!”

His anger washed over her like heat from the forge. It drove her back, startled. “Sorry, I wasn’t… I wasn’t looking.”

“You could have knocked it over into the fire!” He branished it above her, just out of her reach. “Take care of what I give you, else I might just regret adding that Stag to your arms.”  
  
The blow landed hard. _Words are wind, words are wind_. She blinked furiously against the sting.  
  
The fight went out of him in an instant, and he slumped, dropping the weapon to his side. “I’m sorry my Lady. That was entirely unfair.” He passed a hand through his hair, tracking soot and sweat over his brow. “Please forgive your very tired uncle.”

Why could she never find the right words? She reached up at him through the silence, stretching up on her toes. His arms went around her and he picked her up, like he used to do so many moons ago. She was not a child anymore, but she still let him. He smelled of sweat and fire and family.

“I’m fine, Cas. I promise.” She tried to hear the lie in it, and failed. What was she missing?  
  
“How are you so tiny?” His voice sounded muffled through her hair. She wriggled in his arms until he dropped her back on her feet.

“I’ll grow. Just you wait. I’ll be bigger than you one day.”

His smile tugged at her heart, even though it did not reach his eyes.

“I’m sure you will be."  
  


\----------------------------------------------  
  


Something was bothering her uncle.

She barely parried the blow aimed at her temple, rolling under the next swipe. She was sure she wasn’t the only one to see it now. There were whispers in the kitchen, glances in the Round Hall. And yet, and yet… She parried another attack, botching her counter strike. Nobody seemed to care. Nobody seemed to have a plan. Nobody-- She jumped over the low swoop of the staff, only to run straight into the upswing. For a moment all was white, and then the world returned to her in a crash of pain.

Elia was looking at her with a pitiful frown. “We are done here.”

Cassandra struggled against the throbbing flashes, settling back into a wobbly first position. “I can do this!”  
  
“Clearly, you cannot. Not today. Run along Little Lady.”  
  
The name stung, as always. On a better day, she’d be able to ignore it. This day, however, had been horrible. She charged with a furious cry, slashing blindly. “Do NOT call me little!”  
  
Another white hot flash, and she found herself on her back, gasping for air. Elia appeared above her. She almost seemed bored. “Pick your own name then, before the world does it for you. You decide who you are, nobody else.” She stepped over her. “Go clear your head. Maybe realise not every problem is yours to carry.” 

The humiliation was still throbbing when she passed Steffon on the way to the armoury. He was sitting at one of the windows in the winding stairwell, looking out over the courtyard. His eyes were glued to the pages of yet another book.

“Rough day?”

She squinted at him through her headache. Why wasn’t he in the library? Had he seen the whole thing? “You don’t tell me how to fight, and I won’t tell you how to read. Do you even know which end to hold?” _Look up_ , she wanted to scream. She wanted to hit something.  
  
“I’m guessing not the pointy end”, he drawled, refusing her internal command. “But why do I have to fight? There’s plenty of people around to defend me.” He smiled lightly, as if to mock her. “You would.”  
  
“No I wouldn’t”, she lied. She was his Lady, and he her charge, and so she would defend him whenever it was called for. Even if he was an idiot. But he was still smiling in that infuriating way, so she was not going to admit that.  


“Chuck a book at them”, she suggested. “And run.”  
  
“Would be a waste of a perfectly good book, he responded dryly. “Not that you would know what those look like.”  
  
She wanted to smash that smug face of his between those pages he loved so much. “Why do I have to read?” She countered. “You’ll tell me all of it anyway."

“Aye, I would. I live to serve, my Lady.” She turned her back on his mocking smirk, before she did anything she’d regret.

Back in her room, Allie took one look at her face, before putting down what she was doing. “I’m running you a bath.”  
  
She felt the sweat stick to her back, the mud wet in her hair. “I don’t need a bath.”  
  
“Tough. I’m still running you one. And when you’re done, and cooled off some, there’s a package on your bed. A gift from the Queen of the North for your nameday.”

Cassandra stripped herself from sweat and mud before the bath was ready, standing naked and shivering in front of the inner shaft. The wind was trailing goose bumps on her skin. She tried to let it blow the storm from her head as well.  
  
After, when she was clean and calm, she sat on the bed and carefully unwrapped the gift. Yellow fabric slid out from the paper, dotted with black. Baratheon colours. Plain cotton, she felt. She trailed over the design. It had their stag, tall and proud. It was looking over at the side, and when she followed the fabric, she found another stag. No, a deer. Smaller. Younger. They were looking at each other, from shoulder to shoulder. The sleeves were dappled with silver streaks. Lightning travelling down.  
  
She put it on backwards at first, belatedly realising the lacings were designed to be at the front. The sleeves left her hands and wrists free, so she managed to lace herself in, ending with a simple knot. The length of the dress was just right for running. Practical, but still pretty. It was a strange word to her. She dared a little twirl.

She had a sudden urge to prance across the yard, just to see how the men would look at her now. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------  
  
“Maybe he’s in love.”  
  
She looked at Steffon for any sort of reaction. He only turned his page with a resigned sigh. She shouldered on. “Maybe he’s in love, and, the distance is weary. Maybe he was wooing her with letters, and she finally told him no. Or, or, maybe she did say yes, but he’d have to give up everything and move there, and he can’t.” 

Still no response. She pulled the chair next to him back with a loud scrape, sitting down heavily. “Well?”  
  
He finally looked up with a resigned air. “Those are all assumptions, and not facts.”

Not exactly the reaction she had hoped for. “Alright then, if you’re so smart, you figure it out.”  
  
“Why? It’s clearly not bothering me as much as it is bothering you. He is a grown man, capable of handling his own problems. What are you hoping to achieve here?”  
  
She slumped forward with a frustrated groan, hiding her face in her arms. Useless. Utterly useless. Him and her both.  
  
A gentle thump made her glance up. He had shut the book. He was _looking_ at her. She sat up, straightening her back.

“Forget about what you think. Start with what you know.” 

What she knew was far too little. “Something is wrong with my uncle. He is unhappy.”  
  
His look was full of reproach. _Right. Facts._  
  
“He is distracted. Moody.” He was nodding for her to go on. _“_ He was happy for a while after the Queen left, and then a few weeks later, he was suddenly drawn back, and now he just spends all his free time in the forge with this pained look on his face. He’s… worried?” He shrugged at that, and she huffed. “I don’t have enough to go on.”  
  
Steffon instantly brightened. “Exactly. And as long as you don’t have more facts, you’ll just keep worrying yourself in circles. You can’t solve an equation if you don’t have all the numbers.”  
  
She frowned at him suspiciously. “Do _you_ have any numbers?”  
  
“I might.” She didn’t think she had ever seen him smile at her. He slid a little closer, dropping his voice to a whisper. “What if I told you his mood swings coincide with ravens from Winterfell?”  
  
“So he _is_ in love with her?”

The smile vanished in favour of a glare. “And here I thought we were actually getting somewhere. You’re the Lady of Storm’s End. You have an entire keep at your disposal. If you want to figure this out, stop assuming.”

_Don’t hit him, don’t hit him, he won’t help you if you hit him._ His eyes were grey and green, like the sea on stormy days. She never noticed before. They were also much too serious for his age. She rushed the questions out before he could decide to stop talking to her.

“What happens with the scrolls after he reads them?”  
  
“Maester Eomer collects them all for safekeeping.”  
  
“Could you find them?”

“Are you asking me to spy on your uncle for me?”  
  
She opened her mouth, ready to deny it, then shut it again.

He grinned slyly. “As my Lady commands.”

The guilt made it hard to eat much, later. Steffon had left right after, and she hadn’t stopped him, and what did that make her? Her uncle was an honest man, everyone said. But if she asked him, would he be upfront about it? Had she crossed the line between worry and meddling?  
  
“Let’s have a hunt.”

Her spoon clattered on the table, startling her from her guilty ponderings. Her uncle handed it back to her. “Just you and me. We’ll ride for the Rainwood, make an adventure out of it.”

“Just-- just the two of us?” She was gaping at him, she belatedly realised. But he was smiling, truly smiling, and her heart ached at how long ago it had been. “What are we hunting?”  
  
“Trees”, he simply said. She did not understand, but nodded anyway.

\---------------------------------- 

He wore plain leather garb on the road. The sword on his hip was one of his own. He still looked ever so lordly, riding with a straight back, but he looked happier here amongst the woods than he had been between their walls for a long time.  
  
I needed a break, he admitted, one night at their fire. From what, she had not dared to ask. 

It was slow going. Often they had to dismount and pick their way through the dense growth. She knew what a weirwood tree looked like. They were rare, but not as rare here, in what was once a part of the ancient woods covering all of Westeros. Still, the ones they found were few and far between. The first one was far too old. The second so intertwined as to be impossible to work free without killing it. She imagined a bigger search party would have been better for the task, but her uncle did not seem to mind the comfortable pace. They had their own provisions, but made time to hunt small game. He showed her how to skin or pluck whatever they caught, and how to roast it over a fire. And when he realised she didn’t know how to make fire, he showed her that too. Which wood to use, how to keep it from spreading to the forest, how to kill it without making any smoke. He’d tell her stories about his time with the Night Watch boys, and about the Brotherhood without banners. She talked about the stable boys, and how some of the village girls wanted to fight too now, even when their own fathers said no. She even talked about Stupid Steffon. He listened to all of it. When he laughed at her jokes, it made her heart swell. Surely whatever was troubling him, was in the past now. 

They were both used to rain, but on the tenth day, a gale blew through the woods so wild, it made the very trees shake. They found shelter in a vast cave, big enough to tether the horses in. While he settled the animals, she made the fire. Packed together, the cave quickly warmed to be quite comfortable. Outside, the rain danced in the howling wind.  
  
Uncle had taken first watch that night. She listened to his easy breathing as the sun broke through the dying storm. The wet leaves all around were brilliant in the morning light. Brilliant, with a dash of red. Her heart skipped a beat, straining her eyes to make sure. He would surely scold her for going out on her own, but the thought of surprising him won out. So when the rain finally tempered, she fed the fire once more before slipping out. After all, she did not have to go far.

The tree was absolutely perfect. Young, and only barely as high as the Queen. She crouched to push her fingers into the soil. Warm and wet, not stony at all. She stood, reaching for the highest branches, brushing the blood red leaves with a happy grin. She wrapped her arms around the slender trunk easily, imagining how it would grow, for years and years to come. “Would you like to come live with us?” she whispered against the pale bark. Only the soft patter of drops on leaves replied. A strange sensation tickled the back of her neck.

She knew before she turned that something was very, very wrong.

_Stupid, stupid. STUPID._ Through the fear, she wondered vaguely what they would call her now. Probably something utterly humiliating, like the Careless Little Storm.  
  
Up close, the wolf was enormous. It was staring down at her, utterly unmoving. One pounce could close the gap. She suddenly felt oh so very little. Were wolves supposed to be this big?

Steffon would know.

She grasped her sword with fingers as pale as the tree at her back.

She would give them no cause to call her craven.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it has been a while since my last update, but I am most definitely still writing! Real life demanded a lot of my creativity for a bit.  
> Also, this chapter has two new characters for me to figure out, which took longer than I thought. But it ended up huge, so I guess that makes up for it a little? 
> 
> As always, feedback very much appreciated :) To all of you still reading, you rock!


	8. Arya

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dream was dissolving, coiling and wavering, slipping away like wisps of smoke, and still she grasped for it, softly panting with the effort.

She woke to the taste of iron in her mouth. _A trembling child, and blood in the woods_.

The surge of panic almost burned the dream away. _Calm as water_ , she chided herself, leaning into the taste _._ It was warm, tangible on her tongue. The blood was in her mouth. Had it been in her dream as well?

_Calm as water._ She willed herself to sink, to reach. There had been a forest. Ancient trees, not unlike those from the lands of her birth. Only this land was warmer. More wet. Overhead, the stars had blinked familiar, while the soil felt new under her paws, the scents strange in her nose. For weeks now the wolf had wandered, while the woman wondered. The new sought paths, the puzzling absence of her grey cousins, the seemingly constant rain and the long nights spent running, and running.

_Where did you go?_ A soaked forest. Leaves as red as blood. _What did we do?_  
  
There had been a girl. A girl almost grown. In the darkness behind her eyes she could see her again, smell her hot in her nose. _Scared._ The blade had caught the first rays of dawn. _Brave._  
Humans did not scare her. Men were just meat, and meat was food. She did not need her pack to kill. The woman swallowed thickly. She could not fault the wolf her prey. She never did. Yet the hunter had hesitated.  
  
She plunged on, pulling at the tendrils of the dream, looking for the why of it. There had been… the ghost of a scent. The expectation of pack. But there were no grey bodies appearing amongst the trees. She was alone here, alone with her prey. Yet the scent prevailed, even as fear almost drowned it. It tugged her forward, slowly, carefully. The sword raised, and she had bared her fangs in return. Who was this pup, to defy her? The fear spiked, and yet she did not run. Brave little fool.  
  
Suddenly there was the snapping of wood and the noise of wet leaves, as something came crashing through the trees with all the grace and elegance of a bull. The girl was forgotten. In the dream she had turned with a snarl, teeth ready to snap and tear and kill, the earth wet under her paws as she set off, pouncing forward with clear intent.

The dream was dissolving, coiling and wavering, slipping away like wisps of smoke, and still she grasped for it, softly panting with the effort.

_A man grown. A hammer she jumped to dodge. The girl, screaming. He was big, but she was bigger, and he was just a man, and men were just meat, even if their eyes were set in a stubbornly pained frown, even if they somehow smelled like pack, like home, like-_  
  
**NO.**  
__  
Her eyes flung open, blind and burning in the sudden daylight. The memory stayed. She could still feel her shock, the whine of confusion lingering underneath. She had never imposed her will upon Nymeria before. Not knowingly. As a wolf, she had been wet with rain. As a woman, she was drenched in sweat, shoulder aching where the hammer had glanced her. But that would pass. It always did, with waking. She could feel the sea dance under her feet as she got up. Balance was easy, but after trees and moss and sky, the cabin felt stiflingly small. She closed her eyes again, getting cleaned and ready by touch alone. It helped, somewhat.  
  
She had never thought she’d miss it, not until that first night of dreamless sleep, leagues and leagues away from Westeros. It had felt oddly light, like the very last tether snapping, releasing her into the world. And then the nightmares had begun. New dreams about old things, and never once the same. Some held blood, and smoke, and the screams of the dying burned. Some held monstrous castles, where she roamed as a childling ghost, and others still showed a pale old hag in a circle of stumps, crying tears of blood while pleading to leave her be. Her father died again in her dreams, him and Yoren, and Lommy, and even Lady Crane. Once, she dreamt of the bucket and the rat, of blue eyes trying to be brave, and almost woke screaming.  
  
The dreamless nights were better, but only just. Those were a constant ache, like the ghost of lost fingers. It was a different kind of hurt, a lesson she could have done without. They say everything fades, in the end. Just her luck for finding the end of the world was simply the beginning again.   

Not until they passed Bitterweed Bay did she become a night wolf again. Sudden and without warning, terror yielded to a canopy of stars, achingly familiar. That first night, she slept so long her crew had been worried enough to wake her. Since then, her dreams had once more been blissfully full with running and howling and hunting, with the rich taste of prey and the warmth of live pelts. It was like coming home. Almost. Sleeping was peaceful again, even as the pull was painful.

Her breathing turned into a manic chuckle. He had smelled of life, and steel.

She was entirely unsure about the beard.

When she finally appeared on deck, the sun was well up in the sky. She turned her face to it, soaking up the warmth. Clear blue today, with a promising breeze. They’d make good time. Might even round the Axe today. She’d have a look at the maps later.  
The sudden cawing shouldn’t have startled her. The crow sat perched on the railing, waiting for her. Its eyes were a muddled grey of swirling smoke.  
  
She closed the distance with a withering stare. “You don’t have to keep killing birds for me, little brother.” The crow cocked its head. “I know you mean well, but I am fine.” She spread her arms, turning once fully. “See?” The bird simply looked, unblinking. Waiting.

He always had been insufferable. 

“You can stop worrying.” The words tasted odd in her mouth. She forced them out anyway. “I will see you again.”

The grey flickered and died. The bird blinked, once, and slowly keeled over. She raised her hand to it with a sigh. How many did that make? She meant to brush it overboard, give its body to the waves. She scooped it up instead. It was a scrawny flip of a thing. Underneath the feathery warmth, there was a tenacious flurry. Soft. Persistent. She carried it to her cabin.  
Perhaps this one would actually live. 

After, her day was too full to worry much about things she could not change. There was a crew to maintain, maps to consult, worries to quell. When all else ran out, she taunted around until she found a sparring partner. Only when the sun kissed the sea again, did she allow herself to retreat to her cabin once more.

Tucked away from the world, before she traded sea for forest, she mentally prepared herself for a different kind of voyage, whispering a different kind of prayer. After all, she had done it once. She could do it again.

“I’m going home, girl.” _And you should, too._  
  


 ----------------------  
  


It took another five days for the next bird to find her. It landed just as the cry for land was going up. Her crew ran to look, and she had meant to join them, to stand at the prow as she had done so many years ago. But the crow cawed and beat its wings, and there was a letter there, with a seal to match her sails.

It wasn’t hard to catch the bird. “Let go”, she told the smoky eyes sternly. The crow blinked back, suddenly just a bird, and cawed weakly.  
  
Inside her cabin, a once doomed crow flew up in furious protest as she brought the new bird in.

“Shush, Arry.” She carefully tipped her catch into the cage, where it plonked blearily down. A shadow darkened the space, and the voices outside rose in excitement. The Titan, she knew. She should be up there, aiding with the approach, not sitting down at her desk. She unfurled the letter one handed, batting away Arry with the other, who had landed to beg for food. He was still a scrawny little thing, but he never let up.  
  
“I should have tossed you into the sea. Go on, get.”

He tried to steal the letter instead, so she pushed him off the desk. He rose with an indignant kwork, perching on top of the cage to glare down at the newcomer. _  
_

The direwolf seal broke easy.  


_Sister,_

_Our brother has brought to my attention that Arya Stark has been spotted in the Known World again. Do try to keep her safe. There are people here that care for her, and miss her deeply._

The letter fell from her grasp, curling in on itself. Sansa. Sansa was out there, berating her from leagues away. She hadn’t expected it to sting. Arry tried to dive for the bit of paper. She tapped him out of the air without looking. Her family. Her pack. More than three years, with not a slip of news.

_Read it._

She was afraid, she realised. _Dark wings, dark words._  
  
But Sansa was alive. Bran was alive. Jon had died before, but hadn’t let that stop him. She smoothed out the parchment once more. 

_Tell her our brother is alive and well beyond the wall._

She felt her heart clench with sudden warmth. Her pack was safe, all safe, and she loved Sansa for telling her straight, for putting family first.

_Tell her there is good hunting to be had here, in Westeros. Deer is especially in season, with many a hunting parties afoot._  
  
She blinked. Retraced the words. Exactly what did her sister presume to imply?

_Some seem to think it a Queenly affair, to take up hunting. I find myself uncaring for it._  
_I do wonder if you would take to it._  


“Insufferable little twat”, she muttered, lips curling.  
  
_The North is healing from its many battles, and is well on its way to full recovery. Winterfell will always have a place for you, should you choose to return to it. I am currently residing at King’s Landing, for various political reasons. I will pray for clear skies and a swift wind._  
  
_Do take the short route this time, sister._

__

_\--------------_  
  


When the ship docked, she was on hand to aid her crew. Provisions were ordered, as well as a few minor repairs. Those sailors who planned on staying, she paid in full. The others were permitted three days of leave. Any less, and she’d have a revolt on her hands. Three days to roam the old haunts, the inns and brothels that had known her as Cat, or Beth, or both. Some old faces even remembered her, if she allowed them to look at her twice. She spoke little, but listened plenty, and bought many a round of clams.  
She even went to see the house of Black and White, once, but did not presume to step inside. There was nothing left for her there. Not for a long while yet, she hoped.

By the third day, the last bird was well enough to fly again. She tossed him out over the water as soon as the letter was secure, before she could change her mind.  
  
And when her ship set sail again, on that first night back on the open sea, she crossed a river under familiar stars, and joined her grey cousins once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two months. I left this untouched for two months! I have no excuse. I will try to do better. 
> 
> To those still reading: I have a plan. I know where I am going with this. Hell, I have written the ending. The middle is always the hard part. 
> 
> This was, personally, the hardest chapter to write. As much as I love to read Arya's POVs in the books, she is by far the hardest character to get right, I fear. 
> 
> On another note, I am immensly thrilled to read that so many loved Cassandra! I myself am not a huge fan of OCs in fanfiction, and I was not planning for her to have as big a role. But we all know how characters can run away with us.


	9. Sansa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The shimmer of the sun was oddly fractured, drawing streaks of silver over the water. 
> 
> It took her a long while to realise it was because she was crying.

The tents dappled the ground like flowers in a field. It was filled to bursting, and more still were arriving every day. She shielded her eyes against the glaring sun, trying to discern the colours and the arms. Used to be she didn’t have a head for those. Used to be she was just a bird in a field, chasing pretty flowers.  
  
“Your Grace?” The servant bowed politely. “Lord Tyrion kindly requests your company for lunch. If it would suit you.”

She turned from the vibrant view. Down in the city, flags of every colour were flying in a pleasant chaotic pattern. They had strung summer flowers between the balconies, she saw. Underneath, some hurts would never heal, but today, King’s Landing stood hopeful.    
  
“Thank him for his invitation. I shall join him shortly.”

She took the long route back, passing by the bay. The water was clear and still, catching the light of the sun beating down from above. Had it always been this warm at the capital? The girl she once knew used to love it. That girl would have denied any yearning for home, for her people.

She tore her gaze from the horizon. It was too early, she knew, and yet her attention kept drifting there as time passed day by day, ever too slow.  
  
Not today. Not tomorrow either. But soon. Very soon.  
  
And after, there would be snow again.

For now, she had a lunch to get to.  
  


\---------------------------------

  
“You’re late.”

She regarded her once husband with half a smile. “Is a Queen ever late?”  
  
“You’re a bit later than I’d like.” Tyrion amended, offering her a cup. “Since I asked Lord Baratheon to join us as well.”  
  
That surprised her. “He’s here? Already?”

“Seems he was most insistent not to miss the tourney.” He walked over to the window. Down below, they were spreading sand beneath the newly erected wooden dais. “Will this be a problem?” 

“It doesn’t have to be.” She took a sip to quell the jitter in her stomach. She knew the letter by heart. Had been assured both sky and sea would remain calm. Close to four years, down to mere days, and still too long. Or too short, if all went to hell.

Tyrion was looking up at her with a silent frown. She lowered herself on the windowsill. “I’ll get him out on time.”

He took a slow sip, pondering. “Would it be so disastrous if you didn’t?”

“Perhaps not.” She saw his point, she really did. “But I am not risking it.”

Beneath them, a worker had started painting the wooden barriers of the jousting course. Two children were drawing circles in the new sand. They watched the proceedings in comfortable silence, stirring only when footsteps approached. Tyrion straightened himself. 

“Well, it’s your family. I trust you know how to handle them.”

When the doors opened, Lord Baratheon stepped past the servant before he could be introduced, waving away his surprised sputtering. “No need for all that, they know who I am.”  
  
He was looking good. Slightly tanned. Smiling a true smile. His beard felt rough against her cheek as he hugged her. He was warm, with a hint of smoke in his hair.

“Have you been at a forge already?”  
  
“Only to look.” He greeted Lord Tyrion, getting a full cup in trade. “I took a walk through the street of steel. They took over my shop. I didn’t like their work much.” He drank deep, pulling a face. “Blimey, that’s strong.”

“From my own personal vineyard.” Tyrion made to pour again, but Gendry placed a hand over his cup. “It’s very good, thanks, but I’ve got a long day ahead. Better keep a clear head about me.”

Tyrion lowered the flagon, studying Gendry with sudden scrutiny.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you drunk.”

His Lordship seemed taken aback by this. “I’ve been drunk before.”  
  
“When?” Tyrion contested. “When was the last time the Lord of Storm’s End let himself go a little?”  
  
“After the battle of the dead.”

The sudden silence felt strangely cold.

Tyrion cleared his throat to break the chill. “To the shields that guarded the realms of men.” He solemnly raised his cup to the heavens. “We shall never see their like again.”

“To Theon.” She blinked. The words had left her without warning.  
  
“To Theon”, both men agreed, with strong voices.

She drank long and deep to drown the ache.

\--------------

It was a relief when they announced the table ready. To shy away from things beyond control and trade them for purpose.

“How’s the Lady Cassandra? Has she recovered from your hunt in the woods?”

Gendry grinned. “She has since decided meeting a direwolf was an amazing adventure, and she’s quite ready to have another one.”

“Ah, to have the resilience and the bravery of youth.” Tyrion chanced a glance her way. “Is that why you arrived early? Youthful enthusiasm?”  
  
He shrugged. “Blame Elia. She wanted to enter the lists so badly, she had everyone ready to go the moment we got back. I suppose it does give our Lady a few days extra to mingle.” 

“Indeed”, Tyrion agreed. “It’s a good opportunity for her to be noticed as well. You might have some matches offered before the end of all this. “

Gendry choked on his water. “That’s-- She’s too young for all that!”

“Girls younger than her have been married off.” Tyrion’s eyes flicked to Sansa momentarily. She pretended not to notice. “You’re going to have to name her a match eventually.”  
  
“I really don’t.” Gendry replied stubbornly. He looked over at her as well, a smile tugging at his lips. “Can you imagine? She’d have my hide. No, Cassandra can choose for herself.” 

“When it comes to matters of love, girls are as stupid as boys.” That seemed to surprise them both. “There was a time I _begged_ my mother to have father name me Joffrey’s bethroted.” _And a time where I cried bitter tears over a match to a good man._

Tyrion coughed. “Well, we’re not exactly saying she has to choose this very instant. After all, time is still very much on her side.” 

“Time well spent growing and learning. Why not allow Cassandra to represent her house here? It would make for good practice.”

“That was part of the idea, yes.” She noted the change in his voice. Slow. Wary. 

“She’ll have a better time of it without you looming.” She deliberately focused on the fruits on her plate.  
  
“What, and run off during a tourney?”

“Why not? You never had any intention to enter yourself. You’re here for her, but that’s not necessarily what she needs right now.” He tried to speak, but she cut him off. “The roosters have all gathered to show off their feathers. It’s the perfect time to visit their nests. Talk to the people actually keeping things together. Show them you care for more than the pretty colours.” He had shut his mouth, but was avoiding her eyes.

“It’ll take your mind off waiting.” 

His beard did not hide the blush, not completely. He had that stubborn set to his brow, the one that told her this was going to be longer than it had to be.  
  
“I don’t want to be fancied and catered to.”  
  
“Like being served lemon cakes specially made for you?” she countered. “Yes, how absolutely horrible.”  
  
“Shut up. That was completely different.”  
  
“How so?”  
  
“You’re a friend.”  
  
She allowed herself a smile. “You are permitted to make new friends, you know.”  
  
“Look who’s talking. You don’t have any friends.”  
  
“I got you.” She looked at Tyrion. “I got him.” 

A scoff. “That’s just pitiful.”

Tyrion was looking back and forth with a bemused expression. “I can see why she likes you.”

“You shut up too”, Lord Baratheon muttered, without a hint of malice.  
  
“Cassandra has plenty of people to look in on her. Elia. Ser Brienne. Ser Davos. Me.”

The look he gave her was utterly exasperated. “How did I already lose this?”

“Don’t worry.” She smiled over her cup as she drank the last drops of her wine. “I’ll keep the wicked men at bay.”

\----------------------

It was pleasantly cool in the throne room. The rustling of her dress was the only sound in the vast space. They were all elsewhere, either preparing for the tourney or enjoying the pleasant day. But knowing Bran, he’d be exactly where she was headed.  
In the end, Gendry had agreed to leave the morning after next. It was later than she’d liked, but pushing it would have seemed suspicious. She’d have to ask Bran to look in again, and hope her calculations were still correct.  
She was almost at the back when the main doors creaked open, loudly, but not near as loud as the people blundering inside. It was an odd assortment that came barging into her solitude. First through the door was a tall man, red in the face with both anger and blood. He was holding a soaked rag to his nose, spluttering and shouting at the two following in his trail. Second was a boy with bright blond hair and even brighter eyes. He sauntered inside with a bemused expression. Last came a woman, tall and dark, dressed in simple Dornish garb. She’d be pleasant to look at, if she didn’t look so utterly and completely bored. Sansa’s presence only seemed to aggravate the man even further. His curses rang loud off the walls of the room.  
She recognized the boy. On his chest was displayed the arms of House Baratheon, but he was wearing his father’s colours. He stopped when he spotted her, and bowed with obvious vigour.

“Good day, Lord Steffon.”

“Just Steffon, your Grace”, he grinned. “My brother is the Lordly one.”

“You know this lot??” The blooded man came to a halt in front of her, too close for both comfort and propriety. She straightened her back and stood firm. “That bitch broke my nose!”

Behind him, the dornish woman scoffed in disdain. “I only did a little. Your Grace”, she added belatedly, after Steffon nudged her with his elbow. 

This close, she could smell the blood on the rag. Since the man was ignoring proper protocol, she aimed her queries elsewhere. “Might I ask what happened?”  
  
The woman shrugged. “I wanted to enter the lists. He said no. I challenged him to a fight.” She pointed at his face, quite unnecessarily. “He lost.”

The man sputtered indignantly. “I’ll refuse whoever I choose to refuse! She is clearly unfit to hold herself to tourney standards!”

Steffon shook his head with mock concern. “The pain must be addling your memory, good man. Allow me to help. I believe your exact words were; I might be persuaded to turn a blind eye to a bastard or two entering the lists, but I will not suffer a woman to make a mockery of my prestegious event.”  

Sansa shot him a warning look. “Thank you Steffon.”

“At your service, Your Grace.” The boy seemed utterly amused by all of it.

The woman, not so much. Sansa nodded a greeting. “Your reputation precedes you, Lady Lance.”

Only then did she turn her attention to the raging man in front of her. The anger burned hard in his eyes. “Tell me, good man. Are you afraid she’ll besmirch the honour of the event, or are you afraid she’ll besmirch the pretty clothes of half baked boys?”  
  
The anger flared, and he got closer still. She kept her ground.

“You hold no power here. What, you think you can rule, just because you wear that pretender crown? Any other King would have beaten it off your pretty little head. _Queens_.” He spat the word. “Last one burned half the Kingdom. The one before that gave us nothing but incest bastards and pain. Stop playing at being a man, and run back to your frozen wastelands.”  
  
Steffon’s look of amusement had morphed into pale horror, and Lady Lance seemed ready to break more than just his nose. Sansa motioned sharply for them to stay put. The man noticed. 

“Afraid, are you? Are you going to run and hide behind your brother now, _your grace_?”

She ignored the mockery. “I won’t tell his Grace the King about this. And I won’t presume to tell you how to do your job. I am however, much inclined to share this story with my sister.” The burning anger was starting to waver under the ice in her voice. “Us women do like to gossip, you know how it is. She’s not much of a Lady, my sister, but she does know her way around a surprising amount of weaponry. She’ll be pleased to hear about your efforts to... hold up standards, was it?”

Silence returned to the Throne room. The heat had gone out of the room. Wordlessly, the man turned, and strode out with as much dignity as he could muster. He left blotches of red on the stones.  
  
Once he was out of sight, Sansa turned her attention fully on Elia. “You don’t like men very much, do you?”  
  
She blew out an annoyed breath. “Men bore me. They always think they’re more interesting than they really are.”  
  
“I’m afraid he’ll pair you with strong opponents. He’ll want you unhorsed quickly.”  
  
Elia’s grin stole up to her eyes. “Good. I did not come here for their leftovers.” She strode out the same way she had come, leaving Steffon behind.

“Everyone knows why she came to the Capital. But what brings you here?”

The boy smiled easily. No, he was a man now. He had grown since she last saw him. “I came along to visit my father, Your Grace.”

“And how is Ser Davos today?” 

“I’m not rightly sure,” he quipped. “I’ve been in the library. Can I ask you a question, Your Grace?”

“You may”, she smiled. “Doesn’t mean I’ll answer.”

“How do you know your sister is coming back?” 

_Young, but smart. One to look out for._  
  
“A little bird told me.”

\------------------------

The shimmer of the sun was oddly fractured, drawing streaks of silver over the water. It took her a long while to realise it was because she was crying.  
  
She had bid Gendry goodbye only hours before. The dust of his column was still settling on the Kings Road. And here she was, staring at the horizon, counting heartbeats. Before long, the whole City would be talking about it. Once the tourney ended, news would spread even faster, further. Nothing to be done for that now.

This moment at least, was all hers.

She lost count a countless time before the ship with the direwolf sails at long last, after near on four years, touched Westerosi soil once more.

\-----------------------

“Do I have to call you Seawolf, now?” 

“No,” the strange woman said. “But you can call me sister. If you’d like.” 

The tears still clung to her cheeks. “I’d like that very much.”

And just like that, as if time never happened at all, she had her family back in her arms. Her sister smelled of salt and brine and wood, skin dark as leather against the white of her own, but none of that mattered. None of it. Not one bit. She was here, she was _here_ , and Sansa could breathe again, even as the tears started fresh. 

The peace only lasted until noon. Sansa looked at her sister, dressed in her odd new clothes with her overly long hair, and sighed. Arya was pacing the length of the room, forth and back, like a caged animal. 

“I just got here.”

“I know.”

“But you’re sending me away?”

Sansa willed herself to breathe evenly. “I’m not sending you anywhere. I’m advising.”

Arya stopped in front of her, arms crossed, eyes hard. “And your advice to me, after so many years apart, is to go away again.” 

She stared right back, unwavering. “It is.”

“What about Winterfell?”

“Winterfell will keep.”

Her sister growled in utter frustration. “So will Storm’s End!”

“And what’s left for you in Winterfell?” Sansa bit back. “You are my sister. I love you. You are always welcome there. But it’s not your _home_ anymore, Arya.”

Her sister pulled away and paced, back and forth and back once more. Her face betrayed nothing of the hurt underneath.  
  
“What are you afraid of?”

She stopped at that, shoulders rigid with sudden anger. “I am Arya Stark, and I am not afraid of anything.”

“Yes you are.”

She’d forgotten how fast she could be. She was in her face before she could blink, breathing hard. She was beyond angry. Beyond furious. 

“I go where I want, whenever I want.”

Sansa refused to yield. “Then go.”

She wondered if the stag would survive the wolf. Her sister was a fury all her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I just take a moment here, and thank you all for your amazing comments? They honestly make my day, and keep me going.
> 
> Looking at what's left of the story, and where everything is supposed to fit, my outline is pointing at 5 more chapters, 6 at the very most. 
> 
> Also Steffon is a precious little bean, and I love him so.


	10. Cassandra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Home._  
>  She was unsure when that word had started to mean rain and mud instead of tall cool mountains. She knew her mother missed them still.  
> Did it make her a bad daughter, that she did not?

“That one.”

Cassandra squinted against the light of the sun. Purple and white chequy, with gold coins in the checks. “House Payne, of the Westerlands.”

“Three tents to the right?”  
  
A black sword within a dash of white, on blue. A star falling. She pretended to think about it. If she answered too fast, he’d only make it harder. “House Dayne of Starfall, from Dorne.”  


The corner of Steffon’s lips quirked. She wasn’t fooling him, and as he lapsed into a pensive silence, she knew he was looking to find her a challenge. “All the way in the back, to your right. Behind House Tarly.”

A black long tailed beast on a dark green field. She cursed silently. What even was that, a wingless dragon? She racked her brain, loath to get it wrong. He hadn’t called her stupid yet. She’d like to keep it that way, see how far into the day she could get. Steffon was looking at her with that glint in his eyes, which she pointedly ignored. So she didn’t have a clue. But there was more than one way to go about defeat.

“Can’t rightly say. And I would not dare to make an assumption without having all the facts.”

The glint broke into a grin. “House Reed, of the North. Never seen a lizard-lion before?”

“No, but neither have you.”

“I’ve seen many creatures.”

She snorted. “Books don’t count. I’ve seen a direwolf, that’s one more than you.”

“And who told you it was a direwolf you faced?” He tapped the book he was holding. “Where would you be, without me and my immense wealth of knowledge?”

“Ever the humble man.” She glanced at the title. “Heraldry of the Stormlands? Why are you reading that one?”

He carefully flipped it open to a marked page, displaying the lineage of House Baratheon. “It does wonders for conversation at a tourney if you know whose grandchild you are talking to.”

“They don’t need a book for that with me. Everybody knows whose grandchild I am.” Most didn’t like it much, but they all knew regardless. She leaned a little closer to look at the many lines and names. She wasn’t in this one yet, and neither was her Uncle. One name jumped out to surprise her.  
  
“What are you doing in our family tree?”  
  
He gave her that look he always reserved for her special, the one that made her feel stupid without him having to say it out loud. “Cassandra, honestly, think before you speak.” He traced the line down. “Here, see, he was your great-grandfather. I was named after him in honour of King Stannis.”

She opened her mouth, but the taunt about Ser Davos clearly running out of names died on her tongue. Her eyes clung to the name right above Steffon Baratheon.

“Rhaelle Targaryen?”

Steffon nodded. “His mother. Youngest child of King Aegon V, the Unlikely. You have a touch of dragon in you.” 

She wasn’t sure how she was supposed to feel about that. Sad? Worried? 

He was looking at her with a hint of something she couldn’t rightly place. “It’s not a bad thing, Cas. Not all the dragons were mad. Some did amazing things for the Kingdom. Even Queen Daenaerys did great things before… well.” He shrugged, closing the book with a snap. “It’s all just blood, anyway. It’s not really important. Don’t you have a lunch to get to?”

Lunch. Lord Tyrion had invited her, and she’d almost forgotten. She mentally checked herself in a slight panic. Was she dressed finely enough? Who else would be there? What was she supposed to talk about? Why couldn’t her Uncle still be here?  
  
“Come with me?”

Steffon laughed in open surprise. “I don’t think I am important enough for that kind of lunch.”  
  
“Why not? You just said, it’s all just blood and too many lines. Who cares about any of that?”

There was something unreadable in the way he looked at her. “They might.”

She huffed. “I don’t. And I am your Lady, and I am ordering you to accompany me. And leave the book”, she added, figuring he’d not do her much good if he just hid himself behind it.

He clutched the tome to his chest. “Lunches are boring.” Was that a hint of panic in his voice?

“Why do you think I want you with me?” She countered. “Go on, put it away. We’re going to be late.” 

For one moment he did not move, conflicted. “Alright. If you can take it from me, it’s yours.”

He held it out high, arm stretched with a taunting grin. He had almost two heads on her, but there were many more advantages in a fight aside from size. She stepped closer, eyes on the book, reaching for it with her right hand to lead his attention there. Her left closed around his belt and pushed, tripping him over a well placed foot. Gravity did the rest.

She plucked the book from his fingers before he fully hit the ground. “Mine. Now put it away, and maybe dust yourself off while you’re at it. We could do with a good impression.”

Other men might have cursed at her, she belatedly realised. Cursed at her, or worse. Steffon just sat there, with those impossible grey eyes, and _laughed._

“I yield, I yield.” He pulled himself up and took the book from her with a chuckle. “Lead the way, Lady Lightning.”

She almost snapped at him not to call her that. Almost. Instead, she found herself trying out the name, basking in the warmth of the sun outside his tent as he freshened up.

By the time they got to the Red Keep, she had decided she liked it just fine.

\----------------

Dread tugged at her insides all the way throughout the corridors of the castle. But when she spotted the people already present, it was instantly swept away. Ser Brienne nodded at her with a smile, polite but true, while Ser Davos approached them with open arms. She stepped into the hug without thinking, grinning with relief. She might be the Lady of Storm’s End, but these people were family, almost as much as her Uncle was. 

“Is that my son?” Ser Davos challenged. “Can’t be, he’s not holding a book!”  
  
“Cas made me leave it in my tent.” The pout in Steffon’s voice pulled her grin even wider.  
  
“ _Lady_ Cassandra, lad”, Ser Davos corrected him gently. He ushered them both inside the room, where a table was set for a feast.

“I don’t mind.” Cassandra said honestly. She glanced around the room, counting chairs. Five, while they hadn’t accounted for Steffon. Who else was joining them?

“You might not, but the lad could do with a sense of propriety all the same. I’d rather not have him knocked into the dirt because of perceived slights, my Lady.”

“Slights or no, she knocks me into the dirt either way” she heard him mutter, but when she went to jab her elbow in his ribs, he pulled back with a twinkle in his eyes.

“Behave. Both of you.” His father frowned. “I did not allow you to go to Storm’s End to be a bad influence on its Lady.” 

“To be fair Ser Davos, I’m quite certain I’m the bad influence.”

By the way Ser Brienne’s brows arched, she knew it had not been the smartest thing to say. Why did words keep coming out of her mouth? Why was she so giddy today? It must surely be the weather they’d been having. Nothing but clear skies for days, while the tourney’s energy was still riding high throughout camp. She smiled apologetically at both knights, and crossed to the other side of the table. But when Lord Tyrion entered the room in the company of Queen Sansa, it was impossible to keep from grinning once more. Why had she been dreading this again?

Lord Tyrion proved not half as scary as the legends would have one believe. There was talk of the tourney, of harvests and rebuilding, of children born and weddings made. Seemed Queen Sansa had more than a hand in some of those arrangements. Cassandra wondered idly how many girls would be named in the Queen’s honour in the coming years.

_Listen_ , her Uncle had advised her. _Don’t just wait until you find a hole to fill with words. You may not always have something useful to say, and neither might they. Either way, you can learn a world from just listening._ So she smiled, and offered a word here or there, but mostly she sat and listened to the stories behind the words. Once or twice, she caught the eyes of the Queen. She as well, was staying mostly silent. _  
_

Steffon perked up with interest when talk turned to the incident with Elia. “The man was beyond rude”, he provided. “Especially to her Grace the Queen.”

“Queens have always been a bit of a sore spot in the Capital. Which is no excuse”, Lord Tyrion hastened to add. “But I fear equality of the female line is still very much a working point in this Kingdom.”

“The North never had a Queen before.” Ser Davos raised his cup to Queen Sansa. “And yet here we are, and the North thrives. The world is ever changing.”  
  
“True. But here in the Capital we have our past against us. There’s precedence, which is always hardest to break.”  
  
“What kind of precedence?” Cassandra asked, curious.  
  
“Precedence of favouring the male line over the female, as decided by The Great Council of 101 AC. Which is preposterous, we can all agree, but many people still see this as truth. Two hundred years have done little to weaken that truth.” Lord Tyrion took a more than decent sip of his wine. “The three vengeful queens we’ve had since then did not help matters either, I imagine.” He seemed suddenly sad, somehow. 

“Then it is up to us to change that truth, for the better.” Ser Brienne had spoken, as she always did, with righteous conviction.

Cassandra felt a sudden warm sense of awe for the people at this table. Here she sat, in the precense of the first female Commander of the Kingsguard. The first Queen in the North. And she herself, little Cas, dragged up Heir to an Ancient House. Would her grandchildren even question it? Would it feel normal to them, in that strange world that was yet to come? 

She had missed a question somewhere, which Steffon was answering. 

“All the Lords from all the realm came together at Harrenhall, to vote for either Prince Viserys or Laenor Velaryon. Laenor’s mother was the daughter of Aemon, who had been first in line before his death. Viserys was a grandchild of his younger brother Baelon.” 

“Was it a close call, at least?” Queen Sansa asked. “Lord Ellard Stark voted for Laenor, if I remember my history.”  
  
“So did Lord Boremund Baratheon, if I remember mine”, Ser Davos added.

Steffon shook his head. “Proximity favoured Laenor, as did many a High Lord, yet it is rumoured Viserys won the vote twenty to one.” 

Something about that seemed off to Cassandra. “Who counted the votes?”

“The Maesters did.”

“So the true vote lied with the Maesters, then?” For a heartbeat, she thought she had said something stupid, as the table went utterly quiet. She dropped her gaze to her plate, feeling a flush warm her cheeks.  
  
It was Lord Tyrion who broke the silence. “I am impressed, Lady Baratheon. Your House truly is lucky to have you for its future.”

The blush bloomed hot on her face.

\----------------

Not even the rain could break the company’s good mood. In truth, Cassandra almost welcomed it. The Capital had been wondrous and warm, but only now with the rain on her face, did she suddenly yearn for home.  
_Home._ She was unsure when that word had started to mean rain and mud instead of tall cool mountains. She knew her mother missed them still. Did it make her a bad daughter, that she did not?

She looked ahead along the road. Storms End still laid hidden under morning mist, but it was there, and close. Soon, they’d all be dry again. She wondered if her Uncle had made it back yet. The Stormlands were not overly large, and the tourney had stretched on quite a bit. With a bit of luck, she wouldn’t have to sit up on the dias alone. _And would that be so bad?_ Her own boldness surprised her. One day, surely. But it did not do to rush. 

The column trudged on at a leisurely pace. They had lost some of their retinue, folks who had chosen to resettle in a city well enough on the mend. In return they had gained others, family members of those living at Crafter’s Hold, even a few tradesmen looking for different opportunities. Elia was currently talking to one of those new faces, a young boy who had expressed a love for horses. En route, he had helped tending them every morning and eve. Today, Lady Lance had give him a mount of his own to ride. One less for me to lead, she had claimed. The boy had never ridden before in his life. So far he had fallen off trice. But he clambered back on every time with a stubborn glint in his bright little eyes, never once complaining. He’d be in pain tonight, Cassandra wagered. She made a note of his face. Surely the stable boys could do with one extra.

Lady Lance had both been cheered and cursed throughout the tourney. Her last tilt had been a draw after six passes. Had Elia unseated the offending knight and one more, she would have won. _And we’d have even more horses to lead back home._ Elia had ransomed back armour and horse only to those men who had asked politely. It hadn’t been a great many. Of the rest, she had sold only the armour, keeping every single horse.

Cassandra steered her own mount towards the front of the column. The stones of her home could loom up from the mists any moment now. Lady Baratheon fell in between the front guards, and readied herself for arrival.

_\-----------------_

Cassandra weaved her way through the townspeople, unseen. Escaping Marillion had been laughably easy. She wondered if he even really tried, nowadays. Adjustments to the market square had been completed while she’d been away. The well had been improved upon, and sturdy stone had replaced the sludge of open ground. The current stalls took up little more than half of the provided space. Seems they had even accounted for growth. But she had not come out here for the market, no matter how good some of those stalls smelled. She had come to see the statues.

They dotted the outline of the market space, wide enough apart to still pass carts easy in between. With the keep at her back, the first one to greet her was a smith. He was raising a hammer high over an anvil, his face set in concentration. She marvelled at the detail of the face. He looked nothing like her uncle at all, but it was very much a person. The stonemasons had clearly put as much effort into these as they had done for the noble statues. Those she passed whenever she went to visit their new Heart tree. But those always made her kind of sad. Especially Shireen. These trades folk were much more alive, all of them actively practicing their occupation. There was a baker next, and a carpenter over there. She lingered at the one after that, hesitating. It was a young boy, pulling a piece of cloth out of a tub. For some reason, they had added paint to this one. His arms were mottled green up and over the elbows.

“He’s a dyer.”

She whirled around, startled. A woman in plain leather garb was looking at the statue, her eyes the grey of incoming rain. Cassandra’s gaze flicked to the dagger at her hip. A stranger.

The woman ignored her staring. “His name is Lommy. Lommy Greenhands.” 

“Is it?” She did not look back at the statue, keeping her eyes on the newcomer instead. “And what’s your name?”  
  
“Tansy, if it please melady.” The woman dipped in a polite bow, eyes downcast. The very picture of deference. “I am Old Nate’s younger daughter, come back for a visit.” 

The indignance was trickling hot down her spine. “No you’re not. Old Nate doesn’t have any children. They all burned in the capital.” 

The woman locked eyes with her, sudden and sharp. “You know your people. A rare thing… in a Noble.” She bowed again, almost derisively. “My Lady.” Without another word the woman turned her back to her, and walked calmly down the street.

Fury won from caution, and she bolted after. “Wait. Wait!” 

The woman did not alter speed. She simply ignored her chaser, taking a left turn, and another right, only looking at Cassandra when she stepped right in front, trying to stare her down.

“Can I help you with something?” She sounded almost bored.

“You are a stranger here, and I would very much like to know your name and business”, Cassandra almost spat, before finding her manners beneath the fury. “If- if I may.”

“You may not.” The woman was smiling now. Was she mocking her? “I do not simply give out my name to every silly girl that prances past.”

Cassandra could feel the storm stirring in her veins. _Don’t let it break. Use it. Mould it._ She straightened her back, squared her shoulders. Caught her fingers behind her back as they clenched at nothing. “I am Lady Baratheon of Storm’s End, NOT a silly girl.”

“Aren’t you? You thought it wise to corner a stranger. With unclear intent. In a deserted alley.” The woman casually rested one hand on her dagger. “All alone.” 

Fury turned to fear. _Stupid_. She had allowed the woman to lead her away from open space. She had willingly put her back to a dead end. _Stupid stupid._  
  
“She’s not alone.”

Cassandra inhaled sharply. Steffon was standing behind the woman, tall and with a hint of worry in his eyes. The woman ignored his sudden appearance entirely. Somehow that was the scariest bit of all.

“I mean, yes, she thought she was, so the careless bit still applies.” Steffon casually walked forward, placing himself in between. Cassandra silently cursed his boldness. What was he playing at? He did not even carry a weapon! “But I can assure you, she only has her people’s best interest in mind. So we would very much like to ask for your name, if it please you.” He bowed ever so politely. “Or will you leave us guessing?” 

The woman was looking from one to the other, unimpressed. “You bore me, both of you. And I have places to be. Either name me, or leave me be.”

Cassandra took a deep breath. She’d heard the rumours, hadn’t she? And then there were all those letters Steffon borrowed for her. Stole, really. Even though they did put them back after. She was either about to be very wrong, or very right.

“I name you Arya Stark of Winterfell. Slayer of the Night Eternal. Sister to the Queen in the North, and friend to House Baratheon.”

“And you’re Lady Baratheon.” The former stranger stepped closer. In the dim light of the alley, her eyes seemed to gleam. The urge to run surged sudden. “We’ve met, once. In a dream.”

Cassandra found she had no answer to that. Arya seemed to find her silence rather amusing. “Well met again, My Lady. But as I said, I do have places to be. So if you would excuse me.” 

She was almost at the end of the alley before Cassandra found her voice again. “Where are you going?”

“To the Keep. Where else?”  
  
“We’ll come with you.” Steffon’s sudden voice startled her. For a moment she had forgotten him there.

“There really is no need. I’ll find my way.” 

They could try and chase her, but she somehow knew they would fail horribly. “The guards will stop you at the gate”, Cassandra objected lamely, grasping at straws.

Arya Stark kept walking, but turned with that mocking little smile.

“They can certainly try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot of fun with this one. The more I write, the more I still like my stuff when I reread it. Let's call it progress! 
> 
> I promised myself that if I finish this, I can start writing one of my own stories again. Let's call that one motivation. 
> 
> Thanks again for reading! :)


	11. Gendry

As he stepped over the threshold of his sanctuary, the world pulled entirely sideways. Two paces behind him lied Storm’s End. So how was he suddenly facing North? If he looked out, would he see snow swirling? Would he see people skitter by, nervously preparing for a fight none thought able to survive? That smithy had been filled to bursting with purpose, dragonglass and dread. In contrast, this one had always felt empty. 

Until suddenly, it didn’t.  
  
“That’s not yours.”

She’d known he was there. She must have. But only now she turned, and _gods,_ he felt about four years too old for this. Time had been at her hair, and the sun at her skin.

Her eyes did not meet his, resting on the staff she was holding. “It’s good.”

“Thanks. Still not yours.” He put out his hand. She could have taken the two steps to hand it over. She could have done a great many things. Instead, she tossed it.

He turned away to slot the staff into its place on the wall. Her old weapon was resting three spaces above. When he turned back to throw it her way, he was almost surprised she hadn’t gone. 

“You fixed it.” Her face betrayed nothing as she examined the spearhead, tested its sharpness. “A pity dragonglass is all but useless now.” 

“Aye, it is.” He felt curiously calm. “I reckon you’re about due for an upgrade.”  
  
He tossed the next staff without warning, and was it wishful thinking to note a flicker of surprise?

“Why did you-“

“It soothes me to make stuff”, he shrugged. Watched her as she tested the weight of it, the balance of how it handled. He had kept adornment to a minimum, and she slowly traced the lone wolf, etched into the blade. She had yet to meet his gaze. If this was a dance, he did not much care for it. So he lunged.  
  
“Did you meet anyone on your travels?”

“I met lots of people on my travels.” She put her new weapon down on the table, gently. “The world is a large place. Many people live in it.”  
  
“You know what I mean.” _Are you going to look at me, at least?_

Grey rose to meet blue. “A few.”

_One? Two?_ He could ask. She would answer. He stepped closer instead. “Took any of ‘em home with you?" 

“No.” She did not approach. She did not run, either. “You?”

“What about me?” He dared another step.  
  
“Do you have someone in your life?”

“I have many people in my life.”

A twitch of a smile. “You got someone keeping your bed warm?”  
  
“It’s plenty warm. Warmer than sleeping in mud, or on moss.” Closer still. Close enough to touch. He refrained.  
  
The twitch grew. “You know what I mean.”  
  
“No, I don’t think I do-“

“Are you fucking anyone?”  
  
“Are you offering?” he countered, and _that_ was decidedly more than just a flicker of surprise.  
  
He took the last step, and her lips.

And he hadn’t meant for more, truly. He just wanted a taste, a touch, to find her really truly _here_. But when he pulled away she followed, whispered “missed you” against his lips and _oh_ , how utterly unfair that was.

She was pulling at his clothes and so he fumbled at hers, unsure and uncaring on how he had lost the lead. The leathers were strange, the cloth stranger still, but the woman underneath was achingly familiar.

“Arya”, he murmured, skin hot against his lips. She was warm. She was _real_. She was breathing his name, and the world fell away.  


\-----------------------

It still felt like a dream. When blissful slumber turned into sudden panic, when he felt the bed empty beside him. He had found her in the training yard that first day, startling her as he swooped her up, all but crushing her to his chest. She’d called him stupid. People had stared. He did not even attempt to care. He’d wake, and she wasn’t _there_ , and it took two more frantic mornings for her to snap at him that she wasn’t just going to leave without saying anything. 

They had prepared her a guest room of her own, of course. The very best the keep could offer. But after interrogating some extremely uncomfortable servant girls, he found she wasn’t sleeping there either. So he had Marillion move her to the outer building. Might have snapped at him when the man refused to put a _Princess_ up in mere merchant’s quarters. 

When he found Arya there, she was looking out the window.

He joined her at the sill, ignoring the wet drops blowing in. “You can’t sleep in the tower, can you?”

She shifted closer, pressing her arm against his. She was warm. “There’s magic in those walls.”

Outside, the forest was a green haze beneath a curtain of rain.

“Does it keep the wolf out?" 

Surprise looked good on her, he decided. “…It does.”

“You could have asked.” _You could ask for anything._

“I’d hate to impose the Great Lord of Storm’s End.”

Ah. Two could play at that. “Are we throwing titles around, now? Should I go back to calling you meLady?”

“I’m not a Lady.” She looked him over. “You are very much a Lord.”

He wanted to deny it, at first. “I might be. But not to you.”

“What are you, then?”

_Yours._

He wanted to say it. Didn’t. Kissed her instead, slow, and warm, and wanting. Chased her for another, and another, until she was breathless beneath his lips.  
  
They were supposed to go to dinner. He really was supposed to be present on the dais when they had guests over. Especially such a prominent one as her.  
  
He backed her into the wall, suddenly ravenous, teeth tugging at her lip. Her hair was entirely too long and all over.

He did not want to dine with the Princess. He wanted to stay in this room with the woman, all his life.

She pushed him off sudden, eyes bright and lips swollen. “You have a dinner to get to, my Lord. Aren’t you hungry?”

Was she mocking him? She slapped his hands away when he reached for her. “Enough of that. Duty first.” She was fiddling with his clothes with a soft smile, deft hands pulling them back in order.

When Arya looked up, she must have found something else in his face.

Soft, so soft where her lips on his. 

“We have time.”  
  


He wanted to believe her.

\----------------------------

Dinner was… loud. The dais was fuller than usual, as was the hall. Seems everyone and their relations wanted a look at the Princess of the North. And how could he blame them? She was hard not to look at. 

“Your tree doesn’t have a face.”

Her voice startled him. She was looking at him with an arch to her brow. Polite conversation, yes. He coughed.

“It’s quite new. We had to replace the one King Stannis burned.” He found his cup. “Is that… bad? To have a weirwood tree without a face? Should we have it carved?”

She shook her head. “Faceless things don’t scare me.”

Her crow fluttered down from its perch to peck at his trench. Arya batted it away. “Shove off, Arry.”

He grinned. “You named him Arry? Why, because he’s scrawny and annoying?”

“Shut up.” She tossed the bird a bit of meat. “I don’t plan on using it anymore. He can have it.” 

The bird ignored the meat, suddenly frozen. It was staring at him with clouded over eyes. Unsettled, Gendry glanced back at Arya, only to see her shrug.  
  
“He likes to look in, from time to time.”

The unease trickled down his spine. Watched, in his very own hall. “And you let him?”

“It can be useful. And when it’s not, I can always toss him out the window. Or tell him to Go Away.” Those last words she aimed pointedly at the crow. The eyes blinked back to black. “See?”

Arry quorked slightly uncertain, ruffled his feathers, and resumed his path across the table for scraps. Elia all but shoved him off the table, but Steffon offered him a strip of meat from his fork.

“There are no whispers about it, you know.”

He looked out over the hall. _There are plenty of whispers._ “About?”

“You. King’s blood.” She speared a potato on her knife. “Usurping Bran.”

_Must we do this now?_

His voice was a tad too rough. “I’m probably too baseborn for the notion."

“That, and you pulled a bastard girl up as you heir.” She was studying him, almost pensive. “I suppose it would muddle up the royal line too much.”

“I did, didn’t I.” He smiled. “How very stupid of me.”

“You always were smarter than you look.”

_And how do I look?_ He swallowed those words. They were after all, very much in public.

“Let them underestimate me. They do the same to Ser Brienne. They did the same to you. Look where it’s got them.”

She nodded, spiking another potato. “So what does that mean for your children?” She ignored how he almost choked on his food. “Will they jump the line to surpass Cassandra? Or will they come after hers?”

He took a big gulp of wine to stall for time. Was this another dance?

“You’re assuming they’d be Baratheons.” And he tried, honestly tried not to picture it. How it would look to have children running around, how it would feel to keep them safe and warm and fed, the kind of weapons he’d make for them, how she’d teach them to use them-

“Planning on a couple of bastards like your father?”

The sudden ice in her voice made him bite back in kind. “Now you’re just being stupid.”

“I thought you were the stupid one,” she bristled.  
  
He swallowed his next retort, willed his voice to soften. “Arya…” He reached for her, his hand almost on hers, when Cassandra’s sudden shriek made him turn.

“I am NOT blind!”

Steffon was laughing. “Yes you are. There are things as clear as day and you do not see them.”

“I do too”, Cassandra huffed. “I see everything that’s in front of me.”

“You’re not looking. You’re assuming.”

The boy was mocking her, and he could tell by the white of her knuckles that she was trying very hard not to hit him. “I hate it when you do that!”  
  
Steffon smiled. Looked. “No you don’t.”

“That’s enough, Steffon.” Gendry warned. The entire hall had fallen silent, and he wanted it done.

The boy immediately lowered his eyes. “I apologise, my Lord. May I be excused?”

Next to him, Cassandra was still trembling. “Yes, go on, go back to your stupid birds!”  
  
“Don’t be taking it out on m-“ the boy started, but he faltered as he caught Gendry’s glare, stood up with his eyes downcast, and left the room in silence.

Cassandra was positively sulking when he beckoned her over.

“I don’t want to hear it”, he firmly stated. “You will finish here first, and apologise to Steffon when you are calm.” 

“I am calm!” She furiously whispered. “He just makes me so _mad_ sometimes.” 

“Good. It does you no good to only surround yourself with people you agree with.”

When he turned back to Arya, she was gone.

He stood up so fast, Arry flew off in a startled flurry.

“Lady Cassandra, take my seat.”

“But what do I do about Steffon-“

“You’re smart. You’ll figure it out.”

He left his niece to her befuddled state.

\-----

Outside, the wind had picked up. Gendry looked at the sky, already darkened by dusk. All the stars were hiding. Down by the gate, the guards were busy closing it.

“Someone come in?” 

“Her Grace went out, meLord. She said she needed to clear her head.”

The wind pulled at his cloak. It was a sharp one, holding the promise of more than rain. He cursed silently, looking up once more. Not much light left, with a moonless night to come.

“MeLord?” The guard was waiting, unsure. Behind him, the stable boys were pretending to be entirely too busy to listen in.

Might as well give them something to whisper about.  
  
“Open the gate. And get me my horse.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... here we are. 
> 
> As always, your comments are like stars in a dark sky ^_^
> 
> I might look into rewriting my summary, if I ever figure out how to not be sucky at those. 
> 
> Two more chapters, plus epilogue. I can finish this!


	12. Arya

She was not running away.  
  
She waded into the sea of forest, staying off the road and tracks. Behind, the castle disappeared from view. It wasn’t running away. Not really. She picked up the pace and ran until her chest was heaving, her legs were aching, until she was drowning in the heavy scent of wet leaves, and it still wasn’t running away.

She did not stop.

When the rain started falling she growled up at the sky, empty of stars. The water got into her eyes, her hair, her clothes, streaming down like a dense curtain, drowning all light and the forest itself. That was alright. She did not need her eyes. She did not need many things.

She was chasing the wind, or the wind was chasing her. It was howling words at her, scattered all around. She faltered, listened. Was she going mad at last?  
And then _he_ came stumbling through the woods like a breaking storm, like a damn bull, anger rolling off him in waves. He dismounted to reach. She almost pulled away, before she didn’t. He was shouting at her, hurling words that might have been storm, and stupid, and cave. He tugged, and she tugged back, until she saw the blue of his eyes, and the fear that lived there.

The cave was a little ways back. She had run right past it in her blind dash. A dash that had _not_ been running away. Inside, the wind hushed to a low hum, like an angry beast outside a rabbit hole. It filled up the space, spreading absolutely everywhere.

He brushed past her with the horse, his words no longer blown apart by wind. They still seemed to come from a long way off. “Absolute- stupid- Did you not notice it looked like rain?”

“It always looks like rain!” The anger clenched. “These stupid lands!”  
  
“They’re not stupid. They’re mine.”

She suddenly felt colder than she had out there. He had turned his back to her, bustling around and throwing things harder than he had to. Water was dripping out of drenched clothes to pool at her feet. He muttered something, hunched over wood and kindle with an angry set to his shoulders. It drowned under the chatter of her teeth. If she closed her eyes, the wind outside could be a storm at sea. Underneath, the ground swayed her like a ship. Rough hands grabbed her by the shoulder, shook her until she was back in the cave. How did he get the fire going so fast? The heat was hurting her face.

He was still angry. She knew this kind of angry. It was cold and scorching all at once. Was he shaking her again? She tried to push him off.

“Seven Hells Arya, it’s nothing I haven’t seen before!” Anger, yes, but edged with fear. He was pulling at her clothes, fumbling with soaked straps and tearing the cotton where it clung terribly stubborn to her skin. She tried to help, but moving proved a terrible idea.

She blinked against the rushing darkness. It took a long while for the cave to stop spinning. When it did, she was cold, and stiff, and sitting naked underneath something overly large. He was sitting on the other side of the heat, sword glinting in the light.  
  
“That’s the second time I end up under your stupid cloak.”  
  
He chuckled, a low sound in the empty space. “Won’t happen again, milady.”  
  
“You promised not to call me that again.” Smoke was prickling at her eyes. She wanted to toss the damn thing into the fire. “You _promised_.”  
  
“Yeah well, you’re being a twat.” He threw another log on the fire. He had yet to look at her. “Why did you run?”

_Didn’t_ , she wanted to say. But she wasn’t sure anymore. All these years and she still wasn’t sure.

“Arya Stark is back. But what’s left in Westeros for Arya?”

He jerked up sudden and startled. “You have your sister. Your brothers.”

“They don’t need me.”

“Of course they do.”

“They don’t.”

“They’re your _family_.”

The word hung heavy in the air. She could tell without looking that he was frowning, thinking in that pained way.  
  
“You’re heir to the North”, he tried.

“Don’t care about all that." She thought of Jon, and almost laughed. "I don’t want it.”  
  
“You have me.”

She tried not to look at him. It was hard. Then she did look, and that was even harder.

She was meant to say something, wasn’t she? Wasn’t this how all the stories went? She’d never been the expert, but she assumed most did not involve caves, or half naked men with their hair sticking out every which way, smelling of wet horse.

“You look ridiculous.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re one to talk.”

The warmth was seeping into her bones. She pulled the cloak a little tighter. “We’ve looked worse.”

“Aye, we have.” Through the flames, he was smiling. “Try to sleep, if you can. I’ll keep the fire going.”

A part of her wanted to protest. But the other part, the part that was so very tired of running, told it to shove it.

She dreamed of rain, and wolves, and a pack to run with.

 

\------------------  
  


They stayed in the cave well into the day. But every storm breaks eventually. By the time warm light streamed through the clouds, most of the feeling had returned to her fingers. She stepped outside to find the sun.

The forest floor was drenched, and pulled at her boots. She tugged them loose, and started walking. Her calves felt sore and stiff, and she needed to move. But not far. She wouldn’t go far.

She left the cloak at the foot of the trunk, and swung up into the branches. Higher and higher, careful with the wet wood, until she could see across the forest, and catch the sun on her face.

He was waiting for her when she swung back down. He reached to pick his cloak back up. But she had always been faster than him.

Leaves were clinging to it, wet and gleaming. He brushed at them, unsuccessfully. “Fancy.”

She shrugged. “I don’t care. It’s warm.”

He plucked a red leaf from behind her ear. “There’s grass in here. How did you get grass in your hair?” His voice was as low as the wind amongst the trees.

“Shut up”, she muttered, and pushed. He was ready for that, but not the kiss, and he stumbled back into the pale bark.

He was warm.

 

\-------------------

 

The castle was stifling her.

She tried, she really tried. There was after all, plenty of things to keep her busy. There were trainings with Cassandra, an ongoing contest with Elia, the recounting of her travels for Steffon. There were the whispers amongst the servants, with plenty more down in the village.

There was Gendry. Stubborn and constant and warm and _hers_.

And yet, the castle was stifling her. She wanted to scream. Mostly at herself. 

And she knew he knew. Which made it worse. She knew by the way he looked at her every morning. The slight breath he let go when she was still there. How he never dared to ask her how long she’d stay.

It was all highly unfair.

Dusk was claiming the courtyard, and the rain was settling in for a long night. She turned inward, into the blasted castle. She knew where to find him, if not exactly what to say.

When she found him, he was mid shave. She faltered at the door, incredulous.

“What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like?” He smiled without turning. “Come on in, you’re letting the warmth out.”

She closed it. They were both well past caring what the servants thought of closed doors.

“Why are you shaving it off?”

He shrugged carefully, mindful of the blade. “Because you don’t like it.”

The scrape of the knife over skin was soothing, like a whetstone over steel. When he was done, he looked five years younger. A man she once found again in her old home.

“You missed a few spots.”

He extended the knife to her. She hesitated. “You sure you trust me with that?”

Gendry scoffed. “Are you mad? There’s no one in all of Westeros who is better with a blade than you.”

There was hardly denying that. She took it, and stepped closer. Gently, very gently, she rid his chin and cheeks of the last stubborn hairs.

He chuckled. “There, was that so strange? I used to cut your hair for you, when we were on the road.”

“You did.” It always felt so very long ago, when she was away from him.

His hands came up to ghost through her hair. “Would you like me to cut it short again?”

She allowed her eyes to drift close, to lean into the touch. “Why? Are we going somewhere?”

“If you’d like.”

_You don’t mean that._ There were lands to maintain. Audiences to keep. Her heart thrummed frantic. She looked up into the blue. He was reading her, and she was too slow to close up. Too tired to keep trying.

“They have Cassandra”, he said, whispered almost. “She’ll have to do it alone one day. She could do with the practice.”

_One day._ His arms were strong around her, but his hold was soft. She could step out easily, if she wanted to.

“We could always try for the wall again. See if we actually make it this time.” His fingers were combing through her hair, careful and smooth. “Only maybe not pass by Harrenhall. Fuck that place. But we could swing by Acorn Hall. Visit the God’s Eye.” They drifted back up again, resting in the nape of her neck. “See if we can find Hollow Hill again. Winterfell.”

She wanted to kiss him until it hurt.

After.

“There’s an Inn at the Crossroads. They sell really good pies.” Her voice sounded impossibly dry.

He chuckled. “He still there, is he? Wouldn’t that be a surprise.” His smile was warm. Attentive. “What do you think? We don’t even have to stop at the wall. We could go beyond. It’s cold, but beautiful. We could track down that brother of yours. I’m sure he misses you.”

She wanted to say so many things. Do so much more than just stand there and smile.  
  
“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For calling him my brother.”

“Let them talk,” he scoffed. “You know who you are. Who your family is.” 

She did not say it. Didn’t need to. She closed the gap to brush against his lips until he claimed them, flush against his warmth and firm into his arms.

And after, when she was spent and sated and heated inside and out, he gently sat her down.

And cut her hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was such a tough one to write... It drove me to sit in my corner and push writing to the back of my head again. Which is not a good thing. 
> 
> Then I sat down and wrote bits of it, to add to the bits I'd had since the beginning of the whole idea. 
> 
> And _then_ my brain went "nope", so I wrote the chapter after this one. 
> 
> So I suppose the good news is, that one is done? And I'll post is soon? It's more like, two smaller chapters.
> 
> There may or may not be an epilogue after the upcoming two.
> 
> As always, I absolutely love your feedback.


	13. Gendry

He woke with a chill down his spine. There had been a wolf, howling. Was the hunt out there, or in his dream? He reached, silent, searching for Arya first, his weapon second. She was warm next to him, unmoving. In the light of the fire, her eyes were open. Unseeing.

Clouded.

Panic jumped at him, sudden and hot. “Arya?”

A twitch against his fingers, like a flutter. She blinked the clouds away. “I have to go.”

He did nothing to stop her as she rose. He never could. Never would. His empty hand clenched around the cold.

She hesitated at the edge of light, where it was hard to read her face. And then she rushed back, sudden, scorching, murmuring against his lips something that sounded, in his heart at least, remarkably like a promise of return.

She disappeared into the darkness.  
  
He tended to the fire first. Stoked it hard and high. Checked on the horses, and found they needed soothing. Sharpened his sword, and hers as well. She’d be back for it. Back for him. With nothing left to do, he chewed some dried meat.  
He’d given up on stopping his hand from clenching.  
  
Dawn was breaking when she returned.

She appeared inside the ring of firelight, sudden and soundlessly. A warm sensation prickled his neck as he reached for her. The silhouette was wrong somehow. Thicker. She pressed into his arms, warm and entirely too bulky at the stomach. From inside the cloak, two pinpricks of light stared up at him.  
  
He reached, gently, allowing the little snout to sniff. “She’s tiny.” 

“He’ll grow.”

From inside the warmth of his little burrow, the pup started biting his fingers.

 

\------------------------

 

The wolves stopped howling once they left the riverlands. Arya did not leave his side again.

The pup wandered, but never far, never out of sight. Aside from the one time he got himself stuck in a rabbit hole, he barely even slowed them down. He slept, curled up between Arya and fire. Sometimes he’d whine softly in his dreams. They fed him raw meat, but he’d still try to steal Gendry’s breakfast. It usually ended with a tug of war, and a victorious pup prancing his prey around the fire.

When the first snow fell, pup yapped at the flakes, and tried to snatch them from the air.

The North was big, bigger than Gendry remembered, but neither of them was counting the days. They walked the land together, tracking prints in the snow. Pup darted around them, and followed, and grew.

And then at long last Winterfell loomed, clean and crisp in the fresh snow. He could see where the walls had been rebuilt, the trenches filled up. High above, the Direwolf proudly flew. At their feet, pup tried to catch his own tail. He yelped indignantly when Arya lifted him by the scruff, but settled down in the warmth of her cloak.

She was smiling at him, blinding as fresh snow. How many steps between King’s Landing and here? How many days? She’d been an orphan boy once, scruffy and scared and steel underneath, even then, always. He suddenly found it hard to breathe.

  
The Queen of the North was waiting for them. So were her guards, wary of travellers without a banner. Gendry helped Arya from her horse, mindful of the filled cloak, mindful of Sansa’s sudden concern at the tender gesture.

He stood back as sister met sister at the gate.

Sansa did not reach, unspoken worry filling the space between. And then the cloak yipped, and parted, and pup was placed into startled arms.  
  
“His name is Theon.”

Snow was falling once more, cold and clean as tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As said, this chapter is shorter than most, so I'm posting the next one, the last one, as well. 
> 
> Click on!


	14. Jon

The children were playing down by the brook. They had asked him to join, but he had declined, as always. Living the story was one thing. Playing at it another. But he could watch, he’d said. He knew they liked that. And so the wildling children laughed and played, and sometimes paused to wave up at him. In another life, he had killed some of their parents. In another life, he’d had a wall to do it on instead of a hill.

As games went, this one was rather new, if not very different than most. There was always a lot of cheating, as was usual in many things in life, and it oft ended in shouts, or a rough tumble in the snow. He watched them decide on a King, and wondered if this was how all games started. A mockery of history, a retelling of horrors. He brushed the thoughts away, like snow from fur.

One of the taller girls walked up to the designated tree. Her back was turned to the group of children, all of them whispering very loudly. After some pushing and shoving and wild gestures, one boy was selected. A hush fell, and the tall girl tensed. Tansy, her name was. She’d been at Winterfell, when the dead attacked. She’d taken a liking to the sword since, and was quite good at scouting.

Jon leaned against his own tree. He’d give it half the distance, at most. Tansy had good instincts, and the boy was too eager. Sure enough, snow crunched under his feet not four paces on, and Tansy turned sharply, pointing at him to go back. There was laughter and teasing, and another child was pushed forward. She caught the next one, and the one after that, all well before they made it halfway. A scuffle broke out when two boys wanted to be Slayer at the same time.

Jon scanned the tree line opposite, more out of habit than anything else. The wildlings had been at peace for a long while. Some of the children in his care had never even known bloodshed. Never had to do more than play at it. But it wouldn’t last forever. The memory of the dead would wither and fade, live on in stories and childish games like these, and blood and strife would return. His fingers clenched at his sword, and released. Not today. Not for a long while. One could hope.

He had always been good at hope.

A hush had fallen over the brook. He turned back to the game.

And froze.

A stranger was stalking towards Tansy. Silent. Swift. Behind, the children stood rigid with shock. He stumbled down the hill, warning stuck tight in his throat. What good would shouting do? The girl was unarmed. Too far, too slow. The stranger reached out, and tapped Tansy lightly on the shoulder. She spun and fell with a startled yelp, a King, defeated.

The threat smiled up at the hill, and turned into a ghost.

“Gods you’re slow.”

The ghost helped Tansy up first, and then she was running, being spun around in his arms, laughing into his furs. Was he laughing as well, or crying? He buried his nose in her hair, the scent of her stifling warm. His pack. His sister.

“You’re alive”, he croaked, as if she did not know this herself, and she squirmed out of his hold to shove him, hard.

“Are you mad? I’ve been back ages now.”

He was laughing, he knew, but the wind bit at his cheeks, and told him he was crying too.

“You should retrieve your letters more often. You know Sansa worries.” Arya picked up his sword, and handed it back to him. He did not remember dropping it.

“Don’t always see the point”, he ventured. “They don’t really need me anymore, out there.” Down by the brook, the children were staring at them in whispered hushes.

“Yes we do. You’re family. Always.”

_I am a dragon_ , he wanted to say. But the wolf inside pulled his sister close to ruffle her hair. She scrunched up her nose, but let him.

“Did you come all this way, all by yourself?” _Are you still a lone wolf, little sister?_

She shook her head, smiling. “Gendry was with me, up until Winterfell. I left him with Sansa.”

“You? Travelling with Lord Baratheon? What, did he propose to Sansa or something?”  
  
Her stare was sharp as flint. Had he said something wrong? She reached for a handful of snow, packing it tight and deliberate, staring all the while.

“You are an absolute twat, Jon Snow.” The snowball hit him on the shoulder. “Here we are, four years on, and you still. Know. Nothing.”

He dodged the next snowball, failed to grab some snow for himself, and changed tactics by charging forward. She sidestepped easily, and he tumbled to the ground. He was dimly aware of the children cheering him on. Cheering somebody on, at any case. Their cheers turned to laughter when Arya stuffed more snow into his furs.

“Alright peace, peace!” He threw up his hands in surrender, laughing as well. She dropped the rest of the snow to help him up, with an insufferable grin.

“So will you come and visit? Join the family?” She hadn’t let go of his hand yet. “Please say yes. It’s been too long.”

He should say no. He really should. Instead, he was nodding.

Still, something she had said tugged at him. “Hang on. Gendry is family now?”  
  
For a moment, he was worried he’d earned himself more snow down his back.

Instead, she smiled.

“He is mine,” she said. “And I am his.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there you have it. 
> 
> I cannot believe I finished this. I haven't finished a story in forEVER. This started as a simple character study, and hey-what-would-happen-if-I-try-chapter-POVs? It was never meant to run this long, but I don't regret a single chapter. 
> 
> I would like to thank each and every one of you, for leaving me kudos, for leaving me such heartwarming comments. They really helped me in writing on, and on, and on. 
> 
> I'm rewarding myself by starting up on a few original stories of my own, so in that spirit, I'd like to say:
> 
> If there were comments you were holding back on, if there are things that did not really work for you, if there were strange language things going on because english is not my first language, I hereby give you complete and utter permission to point these things out to me. I write for fun, but also to get better.
> 
> And again, thanks for reading! It was a fun ride.

**Author's Note:**

> I usually don't even write fanfiction anymore. My hand slipped. 
> 
> In my head, gendrya got a pretty good deal in the show. Neither of them are DEAD. Both are still so very young. And traumatised. They need time to find themselves.
> 
> This idea has been bouncing around for a while. It was supposed to start earlier, and not with Sansa, but this somehow works better.  
> *edit* So this story definitely took me places! It was a fun experiment. Thank you all for sticking with me throughout!


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